In The Name of The Father
by 8 Jhibriel 8
Summary: Three crucifixions on three different continents... The discovery of an ancient conspiracy... A secret that could destroy the faith of billions. -AU-
1. I

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing of it.

**AN:** Extreme AU. Don't like? Don't read.

**::::::::::**

**SUMMARY:**

On a Danish shore, a Vatican priest is found - hanging on a cross.

Within days, the same crime is repeated...this time in Asia and Africa.

Meanwhile, deep in the legendary Catacombs under Orvieto, Italy,

an archaeologist unearths a scroll dating back two thousand years,

revealing secrets that could rock the foundation of Christianity.

It discovery makes him the most wanted criminal in all Europe.

But his most dangerous enemies operate outside the law of man...

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**In The Name of The Father**

**Chapter **

**I**

**PROLOGUE**

**::::::::::**

Monday, July 10

Helsingør , Denmark

(thirty miles north of Copenhagen)

Samandriel was about to die. He just didn't know how. Or why.

After saying a short prayer, he lifted his head and tried to regain his bearings but couldn't see a thing. Salt water burned his eyes and blurred his vision. He tried to wipe his face, but his hand where bound behind him, wrapped in thick layers of rope and attached to the frame of the boat. His legs were secured as well, tied even tighter than his arms, which meant there was no hope for escape. He was at their mercy. Whoever _they_ were.

They had grabbed him as he left his apartment and forced him into the back of a van. Very quiet, very professional. No time for him to make a scene. Within seconds they had knocked him out with a narcotic. He awakened hours later, no longer in the bustling city but on the open sea. Day was now night. His freedom was now gone. His life was nearly over.

Samandriel was tempted to scream but knew that would only make things worse. These weren't the type of men who made mistakes. He could tell. If help was nearby, they would've gagged him. Or cut out his tongue. Or both. No way they would've risked getting caught. He had known them for less than a day but knew that much. These men were professionals, hired to kill him for some ungodly reason. Now it was just a matter of time.

When their boat reached the shore, Samandriel felt the rocks as they scraped against the bottom of the hull. The sound filled the air like a primeval wail, yet none of them seemed to care. It was the middle of the night, and the coast was deserted. No one would come running. No one would come to save him. It was in God's hands now, as it always was.

Suddenly, one of the men leapt over the side and splashed into icy water. He grabbed the boat with both hands and eased it onto the narrow beach, just below a footpath. The other three followed his lead, and soon the boat was hidden in the trees that lined the section of the island.

They had traveled over a thousand miles but were just getting started.

Without saying a word, they loosened the ropes and lifted Samandriel from the boat, placing him on their broad shoulders for the journey inland. Samandriel sensed this might be his last chance to break free of their grasp, yet all he did was upset them. In response they slammed his face into the jagged rocks, breaking his nose, shattering this teeth, and knocking him unconscious. Then they picked him up and carried him to the place where he would die.

One of the men cut off Samandriel's clothes while the others built the cross. It was seven feet wide and ten feet high and made out of African oak. The wood was precut so the planks slid into place with little effort. When they were finished, it looked like a giant T spread across the freshly cut grass. They knew most people would be confused by the shape but not the experts. They would know it was authentic. Just like it was supposed to be. Just like it had been.

In silence they dragged Samandriel to the cross and positioned his arms on the _patibulum - _the horizontal beam - and put his legs on the _stipes_. Once they were satisfied, the largest of the men took a mallet and drove a wrought-iron spike through Samandriel's right wrist. Blood squirted like a cherry geyser, spraying the worker's face, but he refused to stop until the nail hit the ground. He repeated the process on Samandriel's left wrist, then moved to his legs.

Since Samandriel was unconscious, they were able to place his feet in the proper position: left foot on top of the right, toes pointed downward, which would please their bosses to no end. One spike through the arch in both feet, straight through the metatarsals.

Perfect. Simply perfect. Just like it needed to be.

Once Samandriel was in place, out come the spear. A long wooden spear. Topped with an iron tip that had been forged to specifications. The largest of the men grabbed it and without blinking an eye rammed it into Samandriel's side. No empathy. No regret. He actually laughed as he cracked Samandriel's ribs and punctured his lung. The other men followed his lead, laughing at the dying man as blood gushed from his side. Laughing like the Romans had so many years before.

The leader checked his watch and smiled. They were still on schedule. Within minutes, they would be back on the boat. Within hours, they would be in a different country.

All that remained was the sign. A hand-painted sign. It would be nailed to the top of the cross, high above the victim's head. It was their intent. It said one thing, one simple phrase. Six words that were known throughout the world. Six words that would doom Christianity and rewrite the word of God.

IN THE NAME OF THE FATHER.

**::::::::::**

**TBC**

**::::::::::**

**AN:**

**An adaptation of the story **

**The Sign of the Cross**

******Helsingør** - Often known in English-speaking countries as Elsinore is a city and the municipal seat of Helsingør Municipality on the northeast coast of the island of Zealand in eastern Denmark. Helsingør has a population of 46,407 (1 January 2014) including the southern suburbs of Snekkersten and Espergærde. It is known internationally for its castle Kronborg, where William Shakespeare's play _Hamlet_ is set.

**Source: Wikipedia**


	2. II

**DISCLAIMER: **I own nothing of it.

**::::::::::**

**In The Name of The Father**

**Chapter **

**II**

**MANIACs**

**::::::::::**

_El Presidio de Pamplona_

(Pamplona Penitentiary)

Pamplona, Spain

The frigid water slammed the prisoner against the stone wall and held him there like it was made of Velcro. That is until the prison guard turned off the fire hose and watched him fall to the floor.

_"Hola! Señor Dean Winchester! Buenos dias!"_

_"Buenos dia, _my ass." He had been locked in a cell since Friday, and this was the third morning in a row that they'd used the hose to wake him up.

"What is wrong?" the guard asked with a thick accent. "Not happy to see me, eh?"

Dean Winchester climbed off the floor and stretched his six foot one frame. He was in good shape for his mid-thirties, yet all the training in the world couldn't stop the year from adding up. Throw in some old gunshot wounds and a few foot-ball injuries, and getting out of bed was his least favorite part of the day. "Oh, it's not you. I _love_ seeing you two teeth every morning. The thing I can do without is your wake-up call. I go to sleep in Spain and wake up in Niagara Falls.

The guard shook his head. He was slight of built and ten inches shorter than Dean, but the thick iron bars gave the guard courage. "Just like a spoiled American. I got out of my way to shower you in bed and you do nothing but complain. Tomorrow I might skip the hose and wake you with my bullwip."

"Damn, Ricardo. You're one kinky cop."

"What you mean _kinky?"_

Dean ignored the question and walked to the front of the cell. "Sorry to dissapoint you, but your boss promised me a phone call today. That means the embassy will be here long before you show me your bullwhip and matching leather thong."

"Yes, I sure they will drop everything to save you and your brother." The guard laughed as he walk down the corridor. Pointing to another inmate, he said, "Hey, _hombre! _You an _americano, no?"_

"Me?" the prisoner asked with a twang. "Yes, sirree. I'm from Bullcock, Texas."

"And why are you in jail?"

The man blushed slightly. "I was caught whizzin' on one of your streets."

"That is right! The Pisser of Pamplona! How I forget about you?" Laughing harder, the guard pointed toward the man's crotch. "And how long have you and your little _señor _been in here?"

"About two weeks."

"For pissing in public?" Dean growled. "And the embassy hasn't helped you yet?"

"I'm still waiting for 'em to show. They're down in Madrid, and we're way up here in Pamplona. I recken they don't come this way too often."

"Son of a bitch," Dean mumbled. He assumed that he and his brother, Sam, would be given their release once the weekened was over. Or, at the very least , someone would explain why they'd been arrested. But his confidence was slowly waning. If the Texan was correct, Dean realized he might have to do something drastic to get out, because there was no way in hell he'd rot in a cell for much longer. Especially since he didn't do anything wrong.

Three days in jail and still no charges. Three goddamned days.

It had started last week. They were in Pamplona for the _Fiesta de San Fermin_, better known as the Running of the Bulls. They'd been in town for a couple of days, drinking and sight-seeing, when they were ambushed at their hotel. Completely overwhelmed by a surprise attack.

Dean was getting cleaned up for dinner when someone kicked in his door. The local cops. A lot of them. They were there en masse to arrest his ass. They kept mumbling in broken English about something he'd done long ago. Way before his recent trip. None of it made any sense until he glanced down the hall and saw Sam in handcuffs, too. That's when he realized this _must_ have something to do with their former careers. Their military careers. And if that was the case, they they were screwed. This would become an international incident.

The duo used to run the **MANIACs**, an elite counterinsurgency team comprised of the best soldiers that the **M**arines, **A**rmy, **N**avy, **I**ntelligence Investigator, **A**ir Force, and **C**oast Guard could find. Whether it was personnel recovery, unconvetional warfare, counter-guerilla sabotage, or foreign defense, they'd seen more shit than a proctologist. And caused their share of it, too. Clandestine operations all over the globe. Mission that no one else could handle. Or be entrusted with. When they got an assignment, it came straight from the top brass. Right from the Pentagon. And the reason was simple: the less people who knew about MANIACs, the better. They were the government's secret weapon. The boogeymen the U.S. wouldn't admit to. _Couldn't_ admit to.

And that's what had Dean worried. If he'd been arrested for something he'd done with the MANIACs, would the Pentagon come to his aid? Could they afford the negative publicity?

So far it had been three days and still no words.

Three days and counting . . .

**::::::::::**

**TBC**

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**AN:**

******Pamplona -** Also known as Iruña is the historical capital city of Navarre, in Spain, and of the former Kingdom of Navarre.

**_San Fermin - _**The festival of San Fermín (or Sanfermines, Basque: Sanferminak) in the city of Pamplona (Navarre, Spain), is a deeply rooted celebration held annually from 12:00, 6 July, when the opening of the party is marked by setting off the pyrotechnic chupinazo, to midnight 14 July, with the singing of the Pobre de Mí. While its most famous event is the encierro, or the running of the bulls, which happens at 8:00 am from 7 July to 14 July, the week long celebration involves many other traditional and folkloric events. It is known locally as Sanfermines and is held in honor of Saint Fermin, the co-patron of Navarre. Its events were central to the plot of The Sun Also Rises, by Ernest Hemingway, which brought it to the general attention of English-speaking people. It has become probably the most internationally renowned fiesta in Spain. Over 1,000,000 people come to participate in this festival.

**Source: Wikipedia**


	3. III

**DISCLAIMER: **I own nothing of it.

**::::::::::**

**In The Name of The Father**

**Chapter **

**III**

**Breakthrough**

**::::::::::**

Orvieto, Italy

(sixty-two miles northwest of Rome)

Dr. Mark Crowley Sheppard dropped his hammer and searched for his canteen. He was in decent shape for a fifty-year-old, but the heat from the floodlights was brutal. Sweat poured off his scalp like rain.

"Bloody hell!" he complained.

Castiel Novak smiled but kept working. He was in his thirtieth and possessed enough energy to do his job. And while he suffered in the traditional garb of an archaeologist - khaki pants, cotton shirt, hiking boots - he wore a T-shirt and shorts.

They'd spent the past few days together burrowing into the 900-foot plateau that lifted Orvieto high about the vineyards of the Paglia Valley, a location so impenetrable that it was used as a safe haven by the popes of the Middle Ages. Papal documents prove that the Italian popes transformed Orvieto into the _vacation Vatican, _their home away from home during the most tumultuous era in the history of the Roman Catholic Church. Sadly, papal scribes were banned from describing any specifics for fear that their descriptions could be used by their enemies to plan an attack. Still, that didn't stop rumors from spreading.

According to legend there was supposed to be a city built _underneath _the city - the Catacombs of Orvieto - which was used to store the Church's most important documents and protect its most precious artifacts. Most experts dismissed the Catacombs as a fairy tale, the creation of a drunk monk from the fourteenth century. But not Dr. Crowley. Not only did he believe in their existence, he used all of his free time to search for them.

"Professor? When I was little, my father used to speak of the Catacombs, though he never talked about them in real terms. He always considered them to be like Atlantis." Castiel took a deep breath and ran his finger through his short dark hair, something he did when he was nervous. "Well, sir, I was wondering, why are you sure that the Catacombs exist?"

He held his gaze for several seconds, then eased the tension with a half smile. "Trust me, you aren't the first person to question me. I mean, who in their right mind would waste their bloody time searching for the Catacombs? I might as well be fishing for the Loch Ness Monster."

He laughed. "Just so you know, it's probably cooler near Loch Ness."

"And just so you know, I'm not the least bit crazy."

"But you've considered it. You'd be crazy if you didn't."

He ran his finger through his hair again. "There's a very fine line between genius and insanity, and I've never seen you cross that line . . . Of course, you _are_ rather elusive. You still haven't told me about the Catacombs yet."

"Ah, yes, the Catacombs. Tell me, Cas, what do you know about the Roman Empire?"

"The Roman Empire?" he asked, puzzled. "I know quite a bit, I guess."

Without saying another word, he handed Castiel a series of documents from his family pack, then took a seat in the shadows of the rear wall, waiting for the reaction that he knew would come. "Holy Mother of God!" he shrieked. "This is Roman!"

"Hence my question about the Empire. I thought I made that rather clear?"

Castiel shook his head, then returned his attention to the documents. At first glance they seemed to illustrate an elaborate system of tunnels that were hidden underneath the streets of Orvieto, yet it wasn't the maps or the illustrations that perplexed him but rather the language itself. The document was handwritten in a form of Latin that he was unable to translate.

"Is this authentic?" he demanded.

"That depends on your perspective. You're holding a photocopy of a scroll that I found in England. The photocopy is obviously fake. The original is quite real."

"In _England_? You found the scroll in _England_?

"Why is that so surprising? Julius Caesar spent some time there. So did Emperor Claudius."

"But what does that have to do with the Catacombs? I mean, the popes came to Orvieto to a thousand years after the fall of Rome. How this be related?"

Castiel knew that Pope Gregory XI died of natural causes in 1378, leaving a vacancy that was filled by Pope Urban VI. Many cardinals claimed that he was improperly selected, and they demanded a second election. When the next outcome differed, the Catholic Church severed, splitting into two factions, with each supporting a different pope. Italy, Germany, and most northern Europe recognized Urban VI, while France and Spain supported Clement VII.

This rivalry, known as the Great Schism of the West, divided Catholicism for almost forty years and in the process put the papal courts in danger - not only from outsiders but from each other. For the reason, the Italian popes spent much of their time in Orvieto, which was virtually impervious to attack because of its location on the plateau. And it was there, in the depth of the tufa stone, that the legendary Catacombs were supposedly built.

Crowley smiled at the confused look on his pupil's face. Refusing to make it easy on him, he said, "Tell me, have you ever been to the Roman ruins in Bath?"

He growled in frustration. "No, sir. Why do you ask?"

"Ah," he sighed, remembering the quaint town on the River Avon. "There you are in the middle of the English countryside, yet you're surrounded by relics from ancient Rome. It seems so surreal. Do you know what the most amazing thing is? That baths still work. The warm spring still bubble up from the ground, and the architecture still stands proud. Ancient pillars rising to the heavens from the magical waters below. It is somewhat amazing, if you think about it."

Confused by his tale, Castiel grimaced. "Not to be rude, but what are you implying?"

"Think about it. The popes of the 1300s used the Catacombs for protection. However, that doesn't mean that they _built_ them. The ancient Romans were well ahead of their time. Correct? I figure if they were able to build bathhouse that still work two thousand years later, then they certainly could've built some tunnels that were still standing seven hundred years ago."

"Wait! So that's why there were no records of their construction. They were already in place when the pope came to town?"

He nodded, pointing to the document in his hand. "When I found the original scroll, I assumed it was a hoax. I mean, how could it possibly be real? Then I had it tested, and the results were conclusive. The scroll predated the Schism by more than a thousand years, proving once and for all that the Catacombs actually existed. Furthermore, they _weren't _built for the popes of the Middle Ages. They were built by the ancient Romans."

"A date," he demanded. "Do you have an exact date for the scroll?"

"As you know, carbon dating isn't _that _specific. The best I could come up with was an era." Crowley took a sip of water, trying to prolong the suspense. "According to my tests, the Catacombs of Orvieto were built during the life of Christ."

**::::::::::**

**TBC**

**::::::::::**

**AN:**

**Orvieto** - Is a city and comune in Province of Terni, southwestern Umbria, Italy situated on the flat summit of a large butte of volcanic tuff.

**Catacombs** - Are human-made subterranean passageways for religious practice. Any chamber used as a burial place is a catacomb, although the word is most commonly associated with the Roman Empire.

**Gaius Julius Caesar** - Was a Roman general, statesman, Consul, and notable author of Latin prose. He played a critical role in the events that led to the demise of the Roman Republic and the rise of the Roman Empire.

**Claudius** - Was Roman emperor from 41 to 54. A member of the Julio-Claudian dynasty, he was the son of Drusus and Antonia Minor. He was born at Lugdunum in Gaul, the first Roman Emperor to be born outside Italy.

**Pope Gregory XI** - Was Pope from 30 December 1370 to his death in 1378. He was the seventh and last Avignon Pope.

**Pope Urban VI **- Born Bartolomeo Prignano, was Pope from 8 April 1378 to his death in 1389. He was the last Pope to be elected from outside the College of Cardinals.

**Pope Clement VII** - Born Giulio di Giuliano de' Medici, was Pope from 19 November 1523 to his death in 1534.

**The** **Great Schism - **Also known as the East-West Schism, was the event that divided "Chalcedonian" Christianity into Western (Roman)Catholicism and Eastern Orthodoxy. And was actually the result of an extended period of estrangement between the two bodies of churches. The primary causes of the Schism were disputes over papal authority.

**Plateau** - In geology and earth science, a plateau, also called a high plain or tableland, is an area of highland, usually consisting of relatively flat terrain.

**Tufa** - Is a variety of limestone, formed by the precipitation of carbonate minerals from ambient temperature water bodies.

The **Roman Baths** complex - Is a site of historical interest in the English city of Bath. The house is a well-preserved Roman site for public bathing.

**River Avon** - Is an English river in the south west of the country. To distinguish it from a number of other Rivers Avon in Britain, this river is often also known as the Lower Avon or Bristol Avon.

**Sources: Wikipedia; Theopedia.**


	4. IV

**DISCLAIMER: **I own nothing of it.

**::::::::::**

**In The Name of The Father**

**Chapter**

**IV**

**Knowledge Of**

**::::::::::**

Nearly 300,000 tourists flock to Kronborg Castle every year, but none of them had ever seen this before. And those that saw it wished they hadn't.

By the time Samandriel was discovered, his torso was grayish white, and his legs were light purple, caused by postmortem lividity. Birds dined on his flesh like a country buffet.

A group of students spotted Samandriel across the courtyard and assumed that he was a historical exhibit. So they walked closer, marveling at all the wonderful little details that made him seem lifelike: the color of his flesh, the horror on his face, the texture of his sandy brown hair as it blew in the wind.

They crowded around him, begging to have their picture taken with the display. That is until one of them felt a drop. A single drop. That was all it took. One drop of blood and chaos erupted. Kids were wailing. Parents were screaming. Teachers scurried for help.

The local police were called to the scene but were in over their heads. They were used to car accidents and petty crimes, not murders. Certainly nothing of this magnitude. Yet that was to be expected in a quiet place like Helsingør. It sat on the northwestern coast of Sjælland Island across the øresund from Hälsingborg, Sweden, away from the city life of Copenhagen. The last time anyone was brutally killed here was back in 1944, and _that _had been done by Nazis.

Still they shouldn't have made the mistakes that they made. Some of them were inexcusable.

The first squad arrived by boat, landing on the same shore as the killers. Since the castle's beach was private, the cops should've cordoned off the area, protecting all the information that was scattered in front of them. Clues about the murder. The number of assailants. Their approximate sizes. Their time of departure. All of it was there in the sand, just waiting to be found. But not for very long, because the commanding officer failed to think ahead, opting to sprint across the beach like a soldier at Normandy, soon followed by the rest of his men.

In a flash, the evidence was buried.

Of course, their next error was far worse. The type of screwup that occurs when people are crying, sirens are blaring, and there's no time to think. When the cops reached the body, they heard the story about the dripping blood and assumed that Samandriel was still alive. His temperature should've told them otherwise. Same with the color of his skin. But as it was, they ripped the cross out of the ground, hoping to bring him back to life with CPR, yet all they managed to do was destroy evidence. Crucial evidence. The kind of evidence that could've stopped the killers before they could strike again.

Ironically, their effort to save a life _guaranteed _that others would be killed.

**::::::::::**

Robert "Bobby" Singer was an American, and that made him very unpopular in certain parts of the globe. So did his career. He ran the newly formed Homicide Division at Interpol (International Criminal Police Organization), the largest international crime-fighting organization in the world, which meant he dealt with death all over the globe.

Simply put, he coordinated the flow of information between police departments anytime a murder investigation crossed national boundaries. All told he was in charge of 179 different countries - filled with billions of people and dozens of languages - yet had a budget that was dwarfed by an American school district.

One of the biggest misconceptions about Interpol is their role in stopping crime. They rarely sent agents to investigate a case. Instead they have local offices called National Central Bureaus in all the member countries, and the NCBs monitor their territory and report pertinent information to Interpol's headquarters in Lyon, France. From there the facts are entered into a central database that can be accessed via the Interpol's computer network. Fingerprints, DNA, terrorist updates, the works. All of it available twenty-four hours a day.

Unfortunately, that wasn't always enough. Sometimes the head of a division (Drugs, Counterfeiting, Terrorism, etc.) was forced to hop on a plane and take control of a case. Possibly to cut through red tape. Or to handle a border dispute. Or to deal with the media. All the things that Bobby hated to do. He figured in his line of work the only thing that really mattered was _justice._ Correcting a wrong in the fairest way possible. That was his motto, the creed that he live by. He figured if he did that, then all the other bullshit would take care of itself.

Dial arrived in Helsingør in the late afternoon. He didn't know much about the case - other than someone had been crucified and the president of Interpol wanted him there - but that was the way he preferred it. He like forming conclusions based on personal observations, instead of relying on second hand information. Most investigations would've rushed to examine the body but that wasn't the way Bobby worked. He preferred to understand his surroundings before he dealt with the crime, especially when he was in an unfamiliar country. If the murder had been committed in France, he would've gone right to the corpse because he had lived there for the past ten years and knew how French people thought.

But here, he was a little unsure of the landscape. He needed to understand Denmark - and Danes in general - before he could understand the crime. So instead of studying the victim, Bobby headed down a long corridor and searched for someone to talk to. Not to interrogate, but someone to chat with. Someone to give him the lay of the land . It took three attempts until he found someone who spoke English.

"Excuse me," he said as he flashed his Interpol badge. "May I ask you a few question?"

The man nodded, half intimidated by Bobby's credentials and half by his stare. Bobby was in his early fifties and had gray stubble covered his features. People always saw him as gentle but don't let it fool you. It always gave him the advantage to screw you.

"So, what's a guy have to do to get a cup of coffee around here?"

The man smiled and led Bobby into a tiny office. Work schedules and pictures of Kronborg decorated the walls. A metal desk sat in the corner. Bobby took a seat just inside the door and was handed a mug of coffee. "So, I take it you work here?"

"For over forty years. I'm the senior tour guide."

Bobby grinned. He had hit the jackpot. "Ya know, I've traveled all over the world to every continent on the globe, but I've never seen a country like this. Denmark is simply gorgeous."

The man beamed with pride. "It's the best-kept secret in Europe."

"Well, if I promise to keep my mouth shut, will you tell me about it?"

Their conversation went on for ten minutes, filled with the facts and figures about the area. Bobby spoke every once in a while, gently steering the conversation in the direction he wanted, but for the most part kept quiet. "Out of curiosity," he asked, "what type of tourist do you get?"

"Most people between the ages of forty and sixty, equal mix of men and women. Though we tend to get a lot of students during the school year."

"What about nationalities? Are most of your tourists from Denmark?"

He shook his head. "Just the opposite. Most of them are from the surrounding countries. Sweeden, Germany, Austria, Norway. We get a lot of Brits because of Shakespeare."

"Shakespeare? What does he have to do with anything?"

"You mean you don't know?"

Bobby shook his head, even though he was _very _aware of the Shakespearean connection. Of course he wasn't about to tell the tour guide that. Better to play dumb and get the story from him.

"Shakespeare's _Hamlet _takes place in the castle at Elsinore."

"Elsinore? Is that somewhere around here?"

"You're _in _Elsinore! Elsinore _is_ Helsingør. _Hamlet _took place here! Sometimes we even give performances in the courtyard. You should stop by and see one."

Bobby grimaced. "Nah, I'm not much of a theater fan. More of a sport guy myself . . . But for the sake of my investigation, let me ask you something. Does anyone die in _Hamlet?"_

"Good heavens, yes! The whole play is about murder and revenge."

"That's kind of interesting, considering recent events. I wonder if there's a connection?"

The man looked around, paranoid, then lowered his voice to a whisper. "Of course there's a connection. There _has_ to be. Why would someone dump a body here if there wasn't?"

Bobby stood from his chair, finally ready to examine the crime scene. "That's what I need to figure out."

**::::::::::**

**TBC**

**::::::::::**

**AN:**

**Kronborg** - Is a castle and Stronghold in the town of Helsingør, Denmark. Immortalized as **Elsinore** in William Shakespeare's play _Hamlet_, Kronborg is one of the most important Renaissance castles in Northern Europe and has been added to UNESCO's World Heritage Sites list (2000).

**Postmortem lividity **- The black and blue discoloration of the skin of a cadaver, resulting from an accumulation of deoxygenated blood in subcutaneous vessels.

**Sjælland/**Zealand - Also Seeland, is the largest and most populated island in Denmark with a population just under 2.5 million representing about 45% of the country's total population.

**Øresund** - More commonly known in English as the Sound and locally in both countries as Sundet, is the strait that separates the Danish island Zealand from the southern Swedish province of Scania.

**Helsingborg** - Is a town and the seat of Helsingborg Municipality, Skåne County, Sweden. It had 97,122 inhabitants in 2010. Helsingborg is the centre of an area in the Øresund region of about 320,000 inhabitants in north-west Scania, and is Sweden's closest point to Denmark, with the Danish city Helsingør clearly visible on the other side of the Øresund about 4 km (2 mi) to the west.

**Cardiopulmonary resuscitation** (**CPR**) - Is an emergency procedure performed in an effort to manually preserve intact brain function until further measures are taken to restore spontaneous blood circulation and breathing in a person who is in cardiac arrest. It isindicated in those who are unresponsive with no breathing or abnormal breathing, for example, agonal respirations.

**The Tragedy of Ham****let, Prince of Denmark **- Often shortened to _**Hamlet**_, is a tragedy written by William Shakespeare at an uncertain date between 1599 and 1602. Set in the Kingdom of Denmark, the play dramatizes the revenge Prince Hamlet is instructed to enact on his uncleClaudius. Claudius had murdered his own brother, Hamlet's father King Hamlet and then taken the throne, marrying his deceased brother's widow, Hamlet's mother Gertrude.

**Source: Wikipedia; Medical Dictionary.**


	5. V

**DISCLAIMER: **I own nothing of it.

**::::::::::**

**In The Name of The Father**

**Chapter **

**V**

**Different World**

**::::::::::**

Castiel figured it was no illusion caused by poor lighting. All of that changed when he put his hand on the stone. Its texture was too perfect to be natural. "Professor? Do you have a minute?"

Crowley crossed the grotto, stepping over the tangle of power cords and dusty tools that were scattered about the floor. Castiel was staring at the wall, so he turned in that direction. In as instant he knew what it was, and the realization made his knees buckle.

Over a span of three feet, the cave went from rough to smooth to rough again, like someone had taken a giant piece of sandpaper and rubbed it against the wall. He reached out, half afraid, worried that the floodlight were playing tricks on his weary eyes. The sleek surface proved that they weren't. "Quick! Hand me my gun."

The _gun_ was Crowley's nickname for his handheld blower, a small archaeological device that he used during excavations. Approximately the size of a cell phone, the gun contained a small cartridge of oxygen that blew dirt out of the tiny crevices and did less damage than a shrap tool. Crowley cleaned the surface of the wall using a paintbrush in one hand and his gun in the other. Rubble fell to his feet like heavy rain, causing tiny wisps of dust to float into the air. A few minutes later the outline of a three-feet square began to take shape in the middle of the cave.

"Yes, I do believe you have found something."

Castiel released his breath that he didn't even know that he's holding it. "That's great. I mean, I knew that rock looked different."

After clearing three sidees of the seam - upper, left, and right - Crowley was able to measure the stone slab: thirty-seven and a half inches square by five and a half inches deep. Castiel dragged one of the lights closer and tried to peer through the corners, but the cave wall had a back lip that prevented it.

"Professor, what do you think it is? It's too small to be a door, isn't it?"

Crowley finished writing in his binder. "Drainage, perhaps? Maybe an aqueduct? Once we see what's on the other side, I'm sure we'll have a better idea."

Crowley handed him a crowbar. "And since you found the stone, I think you should have the priviledge of removing it."

"Thank you," he whipered as he slipped the bar in the seam. "This means a lot to me, sir. I actually feel like we're a team."

"Now don't be surprised if you need my help. Stone like this can be rather stubborn. I recall one time in Scotland when -"

A loud thud echoed through the chamber as the massive rock crashed to the floor. The two archaeologists glanced at each other in disbelief, then lowered their gaze to the giant slab that sat at their feet. "Blood Hell!" Crowley said. "Have you been taking steroids?"

Confused, he dropped to his knees and examined the stone that had practically jumped from the wall. He tried to push the block on its side but was unable to budge it. "Then how in God's name did you manage that? This thing weights a ton. And that's not a hyperbole, Cas. This thing literally weighs a ton!"

"I don't know. I barely put any pressure on it. I just put the crowbar in and . . . pop!"

Crowley realized engineers in ancient Rome were advanced for their time. However, he couldn't figure out why they would build a wall where one of the stones could be knocked out of place with such minimal effort. Perhaps, he thought, it was an escape tunnel.

"Excuse me, Professor?"

He blinked, then turned his attention to his assistant. "Sorry about that. I was lost in thought. Did you need something?"

Castiel nodded. "I wanted to know if we could go inside now."

Crowley's face turned a bright shade of red, he laughed and said. "Oh! Silly me. Here I am, pondering the significance of this bloody stone when we're on the verge of . . ." He took a deep breath. "Yes, by all means, let's venture inside."

The passageway was narrow, giving them just enough room to enter. Crowley went first, then waited for Castiel to pass him his equipment. When his arm finally appeared, he snatched the flashlight and struggled to find the power button. The powerful beam overwhelmed the blackness, shattering the sanctity of the holy grounds for the first time in years, exposing the high-arched ceiling and the colorful murals that adorned the smooth walls.

"My God," he gasped in amazement. "Oh my God!"

Second later, Castiel squeezed through the hole while carrying a video camera. He had no idea what Crowley was gaping at but was determined to capture it on tape. At least that was the plan. But, the moment he stepped inside the chamber he was so overwhelmed by the artwork that he dropped the camera to his side. "Wow!"

Stunned, he spun in a small circle, trying to soak in every thing at once. The vaulted roof was typical of the ancient Roman era, allowing the majority of the ceiling's weight to be supported by the chamber's four walls. Despite this classical approach, the chamber still utilized a series of four Tuscan columns, one placed in each corner for architectural decoration.

In between each pillar, starting just below the arched ceiling was series of four religious frescoes, each depicting a different scene from the Bible. The showcased piece of the group appeared to be the life of an unknown saint, for it was twice as large as the others and was centered on the right wall directly behind a stone altar.

"What is this place?" he whispered.

Crowley continued to gaze around the room, amazed that he'd found the mythical vaults. "The basic design looks similar to many building during the peak of the Roman Empire, but the paintings on the walls are much recent - perhaps fifteenth or sixteenth century."

He paused staring at the frescoes. "Cas, do they look familiar to you?"

He strolled forward, studying the colorful scenes as he moved about the chamber. He had no idea what he was referring to, but that didn't stop him. He carefully eyed the paintings, trying to find the common thread that would unite them.

"Holy mother of God! I _have _seen these before! These murals are in the Sistine Chapel."

"Exactly!" Crowley applauded. "Adam and Eve, the flood, Noah's ark. The three main subjects of Michelangelo's ceiling. In fact, these frescoes look remarkably similar to his."

Castiel glanced from picture to picture. "They _do_ possess his flair, don't they?"

"I almost hate to say this without any tangible proof, yet . . . I wonder if Michelangelo actually did these himself."

His eyes doubled the size. "You're joking, right? You actually think _he_ painted these?"

Crowley nodded. "Think about it, Cas. This place served as a second Vatican for decades. When the Great Schism occurred, the Italian popes came to Orvieto for protection. At the time the Church was in such disarray the papal council actually considered moving the Vatican here permanently. They felt this was the only place that could offer them adequate protection."

Castiel grinned. "And if the Vatican was going to be moved, the popes would want the right decorations for the new home of the Catholic Church."

"Exactly! And if the pope wanted Michelangelo to do the decorating, then Michelangelo did the decorating." Crowley chuckled as he remember a story about the famous artist. "Did you know that Michelangelo didn't want anything to do with the Sistine Chapel? Rumor has it that Julius II, the pope at the that time, bullied him into doing the project. Once beating him with a cane, and once threatening to kill Michelangelo by tossing him off the scaffolding . . . Not exactly the type of behavior you'd expect from a pope, is it?"

He shook his head. "Do you think he forced Michelangelo to do these, too?"

Crowley considered his question. "If my memory is correct, the last pope stay here was Pope Clement VII during Spain's attack on Rome in 1527. I believe Michelangelo did the Sistine Chapel about twenty years before then, meaning he would've had plenty of time to duplicate his scenes on these walls before his death."

"Or," Castiel deadpanned, "someone could have done these first, and Michelangelo might have copied them back at the Vatican."

A flash of excitement crossed Crowley's face. "Cas, you have a bloody good point there! If these were done before the others, then the Sistine Chapel would be nothing more than an imitation. Can you imagine the flak we'd get if we proved that Michelangelo was a forger? We'd never hear the end of it!"

Castiel laughed, know his dad would have a stroke if he were involved in something like that. "That does have controversy written over it. Doesn't it?"

Although the concept was controversial, it paled in comparison to things that they were about to discover deeper in side the Catacombs.

**::::::::::**

While Castiel filmed the artwork, Dr. Crowley crept down the three stone steps on the left side of the chamber. At the bottom he turned to his right and peered into darkness.

Amazingly, he saw a series of open tombs so great in number that they faded into the depths of the corridor beyond the reach of his light. The ceiling soared above him to a height of over fifty feet and was lined on both sides by an intricate system of niches, built to hold the skeletal remains of the dead. These _loculi _were cut into the tufaceous walls in straight rows, each rectangle measuring six feet across - just big enough for a body.

"This is stunning," he gasped. "Simply stunning!"

Castiel hustled after him and focused the camera on one of the unmarked graves. He hoped to get a better view of the long passageway, but it was far too narrow for him to slip past Crowley - no more than three feet from wall to wall.

"Tell me, Cas, what do you see?"

He smiled. "I see dead people."

But Crowley missed his reference to _The Sixth Sense. _"So do I. Don't you think that's strange?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why can we see the bodies? Per custom, most _loculi_ were sealed with tiles and mortar after the dead were placed inside. Others were covered with a marble slab. But I've never seen this before. Why would they leave the bodies exposed?"

He frowned, thinking of the Catacombs of Saint Callixtus in Rome. They were built by Christians in the middle of the second century and encompassed an area of ninety acres, with four levels and more than twelve miles of galleries.

When he was ten, he toured the ruins on a school trip, an experience that he loved so much that he rushed home and told his parents that he wanted to be an archaeologist. His mom smiled and told him he could be whatever he wanted as long as he worked hard. But it was an answer that didn't set well with dad. When he finished laughing, he stared Castiel in the eyes and told him, in all seriousness, to give up his dream and concentrate on the family business.

It was a moment that he'd never forget. Or forgive.

"Correct me if I'm wrong," he said, "but aren't the Christian tombs at Saint Callixus open-air as well? I remember seeing a lot of holes in the walls."

"You saw holes, but no bodies. It was the custom of early Christians to wrap their dead in a shroud before they sealed it inside the _loculi. _The holes that you're referring to were cracked open by looters and scholars. But that's not the case down here. If you look -"

Crowley stopped in midsentence, his attention suddenly focused on the passageway ahead. Something was wrong. The corridor stretched into the darkness, snaking through the stone like a black viper. He tried to see the end of the hall but couldn't. Shadows danced around him, cast by human hands that dangled from their graves like they were reaching for his light. As though his presence had somehow stirred them from their centuries of slumber. In a moment of panic, he stepped backward into one of their outstretched hands and felt icy cold fingers against the back of his legs. Terror sprang from his lips, soon followed by a curse from Castiel.

"What happened!" he demanded. "What's wrong? Did you see something?"

Crowley took a deep breath and laughed, completely embarrassed. "Sorry. . . I just scared myself silly." His face turned a shade of red. "I don't mean to scare you. Truly I didn't. I'm just jumpy. That's all . . . I just bumped into a hand, and it startled me."

"A hand? You bumped into a hand? Good God, professor! You almost gave me a stroke."

"Trust me, I know the feeling. I almost had one myself."

Castiel put his hand on his chest and closed his eyes. His heart felt like a jackhammer pounding against his rib cage. He took a deep breath, trying to cope with the rush of adrenaline. "You're sure you're all right?"

He nodded sheepishly. "Yes, Cas, I swear."

"Then let's get moving. I need to burn off all this energy."

They traveled together for several seconds, passing grave after unmarked grave, never stopping to examine the bodies. They were still too jumpy to do that. Thirty yards later, the corridor split in two. The path on the left led to a stairwell that slowly curled into the darkness below. The hallway on the right continued forward past hundreds of more bodies.

Crowley turned to Castiel. "You're choice."

"Let's go downstairs. I hear there's a wonderful gift shop in the basement."

He nodded, then started down the steps. They were no more than six inches deep - perfect for the feet of yesteryear but small for the modern-day traveler - which forced him and Castiel to lower themselves sideways. To steady their descent, they used the jutting stones in the walls as a handrail.

At the halfway point, he stopped and turned toward the camera. "I believe we're under the upper hallway now, more than twenty feet down. What an incredible achievement, carving this much rock yet keeping it hidden from the outside world. Simply remarkable!"

Castiel asked, "Do you think the Empire built these stairs, or was it done in the Middle Age?"

He paused, soaking in everything - the vaulted ceilings, the high arches, the colors, the smells, the sounds - before he answered. "My guest would be the Empire. The shallowness of the steps is the first clue, followed by the basic design. It's very typical of the ancients."

Smiling, Crowley continued forward at a methodical pace. Normally he would've zipped down the stairs at top speed, but the heat of the out chamber had sapped his strength. Combine that with lack of food and sleep, and he was lucky to be standing.

"Professor? What do you think is down here?"

He was about to answer when the hallway came into view, stretching out before him like an arroyo. No crypts, no graves, no doors. Just an empty corridor for as far as his eye could see.

"Strange," he mumbled. "I feel like we're in a different world down here."

Castiel nodded. "It looks like it was decorated by the Amish."

Crowley ignored his comment and crept down the hall searching for clues. Fifty feet later, he spotted a stone plaque on the left-hand wall. Its color was the same shade of brown as the rest of the passageway, yet its surface was remarkably different. Without saying a word, Crowley ran to it, immediately placing his hands on its cold surface. Then, like a blind man reading, he slid his finger across it, probing the shallow grooves with slow, tender strokes.

Castiel stood back, confused by his strange behavior. He wanted to ask him what the hell was going on, why he was acting more bizarre than he normally did, but all it took was a single glance and he knew the answer. One look at this face and everything made sense.

His mentor, the one man he actually trusted and believed in, was hiding something.

**::::::::::**

**TBC**

**::::::::::**

**AN:**

**Tuscan **- Among canon of classical orders of classical architecture, the Tuscan order's place is due to the influence of the Italian Sebastiano Serlio, who meticulously described the five orders including a "Tuscan order", "the solidest and least ornate", in his fourth book of _Regole generalii di Architettura... sopra le cinque maniere degli edifici..._ (1537).

**The Sistine Chapel** - Is a large and renowned chapel of the Apostolic Palace, the official residence of the Pope in the Vatican City. Originally known as the _Cappella Magna_, the chapel takes its name from Pope Sixtus IV, who restored it between 1477 and 1480. Since that time, the chapel has served as a place of both religious and functionary papal activity. Today it is the site of the Papal conclave, the process by which a new Pope is selected. The fame of the Sistine Chapel lies mainly in the frescos that decorate the interior, and most particularly the Sistine Chapel ceiling and _The Last Judgment_ byMichelangelo.

**Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni** - (6 March 1475 – 18 February 1564), commonly known as **Michelangelo**, was an Italian sculptor, painter, architect, poet, and engineer of the High Renaissance who exerted an unparalleled influence on the development of Western art. Despite making few forays beyond the arts, his versatility in the disciplines he took up was of such a high order that he is often considered a contender for the title of the archetypal Renaissance man, along with his fellow Italian Leonardo da Vinci.

**Loculus** - Plural loculi, is an architectural niche that houses a body, as in a catacomb, hypogeum, mausoleum or other place of entombment. In classical antiquity, the mouth of the loculus might be closed with a sculptural slab.

**Tufaceous **- The calcareous and siliceous rock deposits of springs, lakes, or ground water.

**Catacomb(s) of Callixtus** - (also known as the **Cemetery of Callixtus**) is one of the Catacombs of Rome on the Appian Way, most notable for containing the **Crypt of the Popes** (Italian: _Capella dei Papi_), which once contained the tombs of several popes from the 2nd to 4th centuries. The Catacomb is believed to have been created by future Pope Callixtus I, then a deacon of Rome, under the direction of Pope Zephyrinus, enlarging pre-existing early Christian hypogea. Callixtus himself was entombed in the Catacomb of Calepodius on the Aurelian Way. The crypt fell into disuse and decay as the relics it contained were translated from the catacombs to the various churches of Rome; the final wave of translations from the crypt occurred under Pope Sergius II in the 9th century before the Lombard invasion, primarily toSan Silvestro in Capite, which unlike the Catacomb was within the Aurelian Walls. The Catacomb and Crypt were rediscovered in 1854 by the pioneering Italian archaeologist Giovanni Battista de Rossi.

**Roman Empire** - (Latin: _Imperium Romanum_) was the post-Republican period of the ancient Roman civilization, characterized by an autocratic form of government and large territorial holdings around the Mediterranean Sea in Europe, Africa, and Asia. The 500-year-old Roman Republic, which preceded it, had been destabilized through a series of civil wars. Several events marked the transition from Republic to Empire, including Julius Caesar's appointment as perpetual dictator(44 BC); the Battle of Actium (31 BC); and the granting of the honorific _Augustus_ to Octavian by the Roman Senate (27 BC).

**Amish** - are a group of traditionalist Christian church fellowships, closely related to but distinct from Mennonite churches, with whom they share Swiss Anabaptist origins. The Amish are known for simple living, plain dress, and reluctance to adopt many conveniences of modern technology. The history of the Amish church began with a schism in Switzerland within a group of Swiss and Alsatian Anabaptists in 1693 led by Jakob Ammann. Those who followed Ammann became known as Amish.

**Source: Wikipedia; Wikionary. **


	6. VI

**DISCLAIMER: **I own nothing of it.

**::::::::::**

**In The Name of The Father**

**Chapter**

**VI**

**Crime Scene**

**::::::::::**

Walking to the shore near the rear of the castle grounds, Bobby Singer realized the Danish police would never solve the case. Unless, of course, there was a witness that he didn't know about or a security camera that had inadvertently taped the crime. Otherwise the cops' methods were too sloppy to nail anyone. No pun intended. Not only had they moved the body, but they had done very little to protect the integrity of the crime scene.

In a perfect world, they would've sealed off the entire area, building temporary barriers that would've kept people out and cut down on the gusts of wind that blew in from the sound. Instead, officers strolled across the beach like they wereon vacation, kicking up sand and blatantly ignoring the rules of evidence.

"Excuse me, are you Robert Singer?"

Bobby turned to his right and stared at a well-dressed woman who was heading his way. She pulled out her badge and held it up for him to scrutinize.

"Yeah, I'm Singer," he finally said.

"I'm Jody Mills from the NCB in Copenhagen. I was the agent who phoned in the initial report this morning."

Bobby shook her hand and smiled, half surprised that the local field had sent a woman to handle such a high-profile case. Not that he had anything against female investigators, because he didn't, but he knew most executive at Interpol were far less open-minded than he. "Nice to meet you. Jody. Please call me Bobby."

She nodded and pulled out her notepad, "I'm so glad you're here. I've been trying the local chief to talk to me. He keeps making excuses, though."

_Typical, _Bobby thought to himself. "What can you tell me about the victim?"

"Caucasian male, mid-tweenty, no tattoos or piercings. Death occured sometimes this morning, probably around dawn. Puncture wounds in his hands, feet, and rib cage. Severe damage to his face and mouth. Leads us to believe that he was beaten into submission."

"Do we have a name?"

She shrugged. "The locals took his prints, but I don't know if they have the result yet."

"Point of access?"

"Best guess is the beach. The front of the castle is well-lit and guarded. So is the interior. Unfortunately, by the time I got here, the locals had covered any footprints with their own."

"Number of assailants?"

"Multiple. The cross is too heavy for just one."

"Anything else?"

"They left a note."

"They left a _what?_ Show it to me."

She led him to the cross, which sat in the lawn near the edge of the sand. The body was nowhere to be found. "The note was painted on a walnut sign and affixed to the top of the cross with a long spike driven vertically."

Bobby read the message aloud. "IN THE NAME OF THE FATHER."

He knelled next to the sign for a closer look. The letters were five inches high and hand-painted in red. Very neatly done. Like the killer had taken calligraphy lessons in his spare time. Right before his advanced course in woodworking. "I'm assuming this isn't blood."

"Red paint," she concurred. "We're tracking down the shade and the manufacturer. Who knows? We might find a bucket of it in a nearby Dumpster."

"I doubt it. This sign wasn't made around here. The killers brought it with them."

"Why do you say that?"

Bobby put his nose next to the board and took a whiff. "Three reasons. One, the sign is dry, which wouldn't be the case if they'd painted it this morning. There's too much moisture along the shore for anything to dry quickly. Two, if they'd painted it around here, they would've made a mess. The wind would've been whipping across the beach causing sand to stick to the paint like a magnet. No way they did it out here. It's too neat."

"And three?"

He stood from his crouch and grimaced, knowing that this was the first of several victims yet to come. "The sign was just the icing. The killer's way of taunting us. His real work of art was the victim, the way he killed the guy. That's the thing we need to focus on.

The sound of clapping emerged from behind, followed by a mock of "Bravo!"

Bobby took a deep breath and turned. There was no doubt in his mind that it was the local chief of police because he had dealt with this type of idjit many time before, and it was always the same. They taunted Bobby because he was an Interpol big shot who was infringing on their so-called turf. Then, once they got it out of their system, he made a phone call to their immediate supervisor, and they were forced to kiss Bobby's ass - usually in a very public ceremony - and cater to his every whim for the rest of the week.

But Bobby just wasn't in the mood today. Not for some dipshit who didn't know how to run a crime scene. So instead of letting the guy speak, Bobby whirled around as quick as he could and charged toward him like an angry rhinoceros. "Where the hell have you been? I've been looking for you for the last half hour, but you've been too scared to show yourself."

"Excuse me?"

Bobby whipped out his badge and shoved it in the guys round, bloated face. "If you've the man in charge, then you're the guy who's been avoiding me."

"No one told me -"

"What? That Interpol was involved in this case? I find that hard to believe since Agent Mills has been here all morning. According to her, your staff has been anything but helpful."

The chief looked at Jody, then back at Bobby, trying to think of something clever to say. But Bobby refused to give him a chance. He had heard all of the excuse before and wasn't about to listen to them again. Time was too precious in a case like this.

"And don't even start with your jurisdiction bullshit. The victim was brought in through the sound, and half of the water belongs to Sweden, meaning this is an international case. International means Interpol, and Interpol means _me_. You got that? _Me!_ That means you need to get off your ass and tell me everything I need to know, or I swear to God I'll call every reporter in Europe and tell them that you're the reason that this case hasn't been solved yet."

The man blinked a few time, stunned. Like he had never been on this end of an ass-chewing.

"Oh, yeah," Bobby added, "one more thing. Once I hop on my plane and get out of this godforsaken country, I expect you and your staff to treat Agent Mills with the utmost respect. She work for the Interpol, which means she's an extension of me. Got it?"

The chief nodded at Mills, then returned his gaze to Bobby.

"So, what have you got for me, Slim? You've wasted enough of my time already."

The chief hemmed and hawed for a few seconds, searching for something to say. "We got word on the victim. His name was Samandriel Johnston, a tweenty-nine-year-old from Finland."

"Finland? That's five hundred miles away. Why in the world was he in Denmark?"

The chief shrugged. "Our customs office has no record of him being here. Not ever."

"Jody," Bobby said. "call headquarters and find out where he's been during the last year."

She nodded and hit the button on her speed dial.

"Chief, while she's on the phone, let me ask you a question. Where's the body?"

"We moved it to the morgue."

"Before or after you photographed the scene?"

"Well," he muttered, "my men tried to revive the victim. And the quickest way to do that was to pull the cross out of the ground."

Bobby grimaced. "Please tell me you took some pictures before you pried him off the beams?"

The chief nodded and ran off to get the photos; at least that's what he said he was doing. The truth was he was looking for an excuse to get away from Bobby and had no plans of coming back until he regained his composure. But that was fine with Bobby because it left him in charge of the entire scene and prevented the chief from hearing a key piece of information that Agent Mills had just acquired from Interpol.

"Rome," she said. "Samandriel has been living in Rome for the past eight years, not Finland."

"Rome? What in the world was he doing there?"

"Our victim was a priest who worked at the Vatican."

**::::::::::**

**TBC**

**::::::::::**

**AN:**

**Jurisdiction** - Is the practical authority granted to a formally constituted legal body or to a political leader to deal with and make pronouncements on legal matters and, by implication, to administer justice within a defined area of responsibility. The term is also used to denote the geographical area or subject-matter to which such authority applies. Areas of jurisdiction apply to local, state, and federal levels. Jurisdiction draws its substance from public international law, conflict of laws, constitutional law and the powers of the executive and legislative branches of government to allocate resources to best serve the needs of its native society.

**Finland** - Officially the **Republic of Finland**, is aNordic country situated in the Fennoscandian region of Northern Europe. It is bordered by Sweden to the west, Norway to the north,Russia to the east, and Estonia to the south across the Gulf of Finland.

**Source: Wikipedia.**


	7. VII

**DISCLAIMER: **I own nothing of it.

**::::::::::**

**In The Name of The Father**

**Chapter **

**VII**

**Family Business**

**::::::::::**

The last time Dean had seen Sam was when they were being arrested. From there both of them were taken to the penitentiary in separate squad cars, stripped of their clothes and possessions, and locked in cell on opposite sides of the building. Mostly for the protection of the staff.

That was Friday, nearly seventy-two hours before.

Dean was on his cot, pondering his next move, when a team of guards interrupted him. They burst into his cell and chained his hands and legs together with a device that looked like it was from _Cool Hand Luke. _The men were of average size and training. That meant Dean could've gotten free if necessary. But he let things slide, allowing them to drag him to an isolation room where he assumed he was going to be interrogated. Or tortured. Or both.

In the center of the room was a metal table bolted to the floor. A large iron loop was fused to each side, used to restrict the movement of the prisoner. The guards locked Dean in place, taking extra precautions, making sure he was secure. They had to be careful with a prisoner like Dean. He was _that_ dangerous. Once they were satisfied, they left the room without speaking. No words. No instructions. Nothing. The only sound Dean could hear was the rattle of his chains and his own shallow breathing. The distinct smell of old vomit hovered in the air.

They left him like that for several hours, allowing him to sweat. Allowing him to think of all the horrible things they could do to him. Hoping it would make him break. Little did they know they were wasting their time. They could do whatever they wanted to Dean, and he wouldn't feel it. He was trained not to feel it. To join the MANIACs, soldiers were required to pass a rigorous torture test that had two basic parts: getting torture and giving torture. Dean excelled at both.

So instead of dwelling on what might happen, Dean focused on other things. Mostly events of the past few years. All the things that had led him to his current predicament.

Years ago when his father died in Afghanistan, Dean decided to be in the military, its always his dream to served and died with honor like his father. Sadly, family duties had forced him to leave the military long before he was ready. His grandfather, the man who had raised him and Sam, passed away and left him the family business. A multimillion-dollar corporation named Campbell Industries. In truth Dean wanted to forge his own identity and make a name on his own. He wanted to be his own man, like Sam wanted to be a big hot-shot lawyer. But all that changed when his grandfather died. Suddenly he felt obligated to come home and take charge. Like it was his destiny. His burden. That's how first born son would do.

Campbell Industries was an American success story. It was his duty to protect the legacy.

When Dean and Sam's grandfather was young, he scraped together his life saving and started a small manufacturing company near the Ohio River. The steel industry was booming back then, and Pittsburgh was its capital. The air was black and the rivers were brown, but he got tons of business. One minute he was a mill Hunky from Beaver Country, the next he was a tycoon. The most successful Businessman in the history of the U.S.

Now everything - the company, the land, the wealth - belonged to the grandson.

Someone without experience.

Dean knew he was out of his element, even his brother don't have enough experience. So he passed his duties to his board of directors and focused all of his time and energy on charity work. His first charity? It wasn't actually a charity. It was more of an investment. He gave his brother Sam who had retired from the military at the same time, half of the company share to start-up capital to open his own law firm and a detective agency. It had always been Sam's dreams, and Dean had the means to help. So he figured, why not? After his grandfather died, Dean knew the only family he had left was Sam.

Anyway, the first year Dean was happy. He raised money for the Mario Lemieux Cancer Fund and other Pittsburgh charities while Sam scoured the city for clients. Occasionally Dean gave Sam a hand on juicy cases, but for the most part they did their own thing.

By year two, Dean started getting antsy. He loved helping good causes, but he needed more out of life than hosting golf tournaments and mingling at black-tie affairs. He missed the excitement of the MANIACs. The adrenaline rush he got when he risked his life. The thrill of getting his hands dirty. He couldn't get those things in the business world, not when the worst injury he could receive was a paper cut. So Dean compensated by helping Sam all the time in his detective job when Sam was not busy in law firm. The two of them partnered again. Making a difference in the world. Albeit on much smaller scale than before. They used to rescue hostages. They used to overthrow governments. Now they were tracking cheating husbands and looking for lost pets. It was a huge letdown for the both man.

So they did what they could in their spare time, searching for _artificial _excitement wherever they could find it. Anything to get the buzz they used to feel. To help them keep their edge. To help them feel alive. Swimming with the sharks in Australia. Race car driving in Brazil. Skydiving in South Africa. Deep-sea explorations in Florida.

And lastly, running with the bulls in Spain. That's what had brought them to Pamplona.

Unfortunately, it's the event that led to their current predicament. Abandoned in jail. Alone.

They had come to Spain for adrenaline. They had found incarceration instead.

**::::::::::**

**TBC**

**::::::::::**

**AN:**

**Cool Hand Luke** - Is a 1967 American prison drama film directed by Stuart Rosenberg, starring Paul Newman and featuring George Kennedy in an Oscar-winning performance. Newman stars in the title role as Luke, a prisoner in a Florida prison camp who refuses to submit to the system.

**Ohio River** - Which streams westward from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, to Cairo, Illinois is the largest tributary, by volume, of the Mississippi River in the United States.

**Pittsburgh** - Is the seat of Allegheny County and with a population of 305,841 is the second-largest city in the U.S. state of Pennsylvania. With a metropolitan combined statistical area population of 2,659,937, it is the largest in both theOhio Valley and Appalachia and the 20th-largest in the U.S. Pittsburgh is known as both "the Steel City" for its more than 300 steel-related businesses and "the City of Bridges" for its 446 bridges. The city features 30 skyscrapers, 2 inclined railways, apre-revolutionary fortification, and the source of the Ohio at the confluence of the Monongahela and Allegheny Rivers. This vital link of the Atlantic coast and Midwest cuts through the mineral-rich Alleghenies which made the area coveted by the French andBritish Empires, Virginia, Whiskey Rebels, Civil War raiders and media networks. Known for steel, Pittsburgh also led innovations and industries in aluminum, glass, shipbuilding, petroleum, foods, appliances, sports, transportation, computing, retail, cars, and electronics. This creative wealth placed Pittsburgh third (after New York Cityand Chicago) in corporate headquarters employment for much of the 20th century, second only to New York in bank assets and with more stockholders per capita than any other U.S. city.

**Australia** - Is an Oceanian country comprising the mainland of the Australian continent, the island of Tasmania, and numerous smaller islands. It is the world's sixth-largest country by total area. Neighbouring countries include Indonesia, East Timor and Papua New Guinea to the north; the Solomon Islands andVanuatu to the north-east; and New Zealand to the south-east.

**Brazil** - Officially the **Federative Republic of Brazil**, is the largest country in both South America and the Latin American region. It is the world's fifth largest country, both by geographical area and by population. It is the largest Portuguese-speaking country in the world, and the only one in the Americas.

**South Africa **- Officially the **Republic of South Africa**, is a country located at the southern tip of Africa. It has 2,798 kilometres (1,739 mi) of coastline that stretches along the South Atlantic and Indian oceans. To the north lie the neighbouring countries of Namibia, Botswana and Zimbabwe; to the east are Mozambique and Swaziland; and within it lies Lesotho, an enclave surrounded by South African territory. South Africa is the 25th-largest country in the world by land area, and with close to 53 million people, is the world's 24th-most populous nation.

**Florida** - Is a state in the southeastern region of the United States, bordered to the west by the Gulf of Mexico, to the north by Alabama and Georgia, to the east by the Atlantic Ocean, and to the south by the Straits of Florida. Florida is the 22nd most extensive, the 4th most populous, and the 8th most densely populated of the 50 United States. The state capital is Tallahassee, the largest city is Jacksonville, and the largest metropolitan area is the Miami metropolitan area.

**Source: Wikipedia; TourGuide.**


	8. VIII

**DISCLAIMER: **I own nothing of it.

**::::::::::**

**In The Name of The Father**

**Chapter **

**VIII**

**Laughing Man**

**::::::::::**

Castiel had no proof, but he knew that Crowley was keeping something from him. _Typical professor, _he thought. They never trusted student with the important stuff.

"Please, professor," he begged, "what does the sign say?"

Crowley laughed as he walked away from the stone plaque.

"You mean you don't know? Tsk, tsk, tsk. I could've sworn that Latin was one of your academic requirements."

"Yes, but that did not look like regular Latin to me."

"Perhaps because it wasn't . That sign was written in one of the earlier forms of the language, one that hasn't been used as a primary language in nearly two millenia."

"See! That's why I . . . Wait! Does that mean that this floor was built by ancient Roman?"

Crowley nodded. "It appears that way. I doubt they would have used antiquated language on one of their markers, not in a tomb of this magnitude." He pointed to a large archway that loomed down the narrow corridor. "We'll know for sure in a moment."

Made out of off-white masonary, the main components of the arch were exquisitely carved, each illustrating a different moment of Jesus Christ's crucifixion. The two lower blocks, the _springers, _showed Jesus being nailed to the cross and being lifted above the ground by a team of Roman soldiers. The next series of stones, the _voussoirs_, depicted Christ as he hung from the cross, his life and stamina slowly slipping away. The crowns, the two stones that sat off-center from the top of the arch, revealed the events right before Jesus's death. First, when he was given a sip of wine vinegar from the end of a hyssop stalk - while flowers bloomed underneath him, possibly as a sign of rebirth - and the instant his head drooped to his chest in death.

Strangely, the keystone, the most important black of the archway, differed from the others. Instead of depicting Christ's resurrection or his ascension to the right hand of God, the middle stone of the arch was sculpted into the lifelike bust of a man. A _laughing _man. The intricate details of his face revealed his amusement in a number of obvious ways: the sweeping curve of his lips, the lighthearted twinkle in his eyes, and the arrogant protrusion of his jaw. For some reason, he was laughing at a most inappropriate time.

Castiel raised the camera and filmed the arch. "What is this place?"

"The plaque said it was a document vault. But after seeing this artwork, there's a good chance that its purpose has changed over the years, perhaps to something more religious." Crowley placed his hands on the archway and traced the contours of the lower stones. Finally, he said, "Tell me, Cas, who killed Jesus Christ?"

The question was so unexpected it took him a moment to answer. "The Romans in 33 AD."

"And why was he killed?"

Castiel scratched his head and wondered why his professor have to make a lecture out of everything? "Treason." he replied. "Many priests viewed him as going against the Roman way of life. They figured it was easier to kill Christ than put up with his flock of followers."

"Did they know he was the Son of God at the time of his death?"

"Of course not. If they did, they wouldn't have crucified him."

Crowley nodded, content with his answers. "Then why are these carving here? Why would the ancient Romans make a big deal about such a small event in their history? If they believed that Christ was a fake Messiah - just like dozens of con men who pretended to be the Son of God before him - why would they devote so much space to him in such a phenomenal work of art?"

Intrigued, Castiel studied the images and decided that Crowley was onto something. "Maybe this artwork was added after the Roman converted to Christianity? They could have commemorated Jesus's crucifixion in the mid-300s, still a thousand years before the Great Schism occurred."

Crowley stared at the center carving, amazed at its vividness. It was so damn lifelike he could practically hear its laughter. "If that be the case, why is the figure on the keystone laughing? Hmmm? The Roman killed the Son of God but eventually realized their mistake. Then, in a moment of atonement, they converted to the Nazarene's religion and commemorated his death by ridiculing it with a laughing statue . . . Somehow I don't think that would be appropriate."

"Probably not," he admitted.

Determined, Castiel focused his eyes on the archway and tried to uncover the connection between the bust and the images of Christ that surrounded it. To complicate things further, the longer he looked at the laughing man's face, the more certain he was that he had seen it before. "Professor, is it just me, or do you recognized his face?"

"I was going to ask you the same thing. He does look bloody familiar, doesn't he?"

Castiel racked his brain, going over hundreds of historical figures in his mind. "Could he be famous like Octavian or Trajan? Maybe even Constantine I, the first Christian emperor?"

"I'd need a guide book to know for sure. This could be anyone."

He grimaced, realizing that Crowley was right. "Oh well, it will come to me. I might not be great with ancient Latin, but I never forget a face."

"If you figure it out, be sure to let me know. I'd love to understand the juxtaposition between the sculpture and the carvings. The subtext of the two truly baffles me. What in the world was this artist trying to say about Christ?"

As they moved forward, Crowley's light trickled into the colossal chamber, revealing an expanse that was nearly three times as large as the room they'd entered upstairs. Measuring over sixty feet by thirty feet, the massive space was filled with dozens of hand-carved stone chests of varying shapes and sizes, each one possessing a historical Roman scene. And the artwork with a series of first-century frescoes, each remarkably similar in theme and color to the painting that they'd seen in the original room.

"My God!" Crowley gasped. "Will you look at this place? The engineers of ancient Rome were truly ahead of their time. As I mentioned earlier, a large number of their structures remain standing today. Still, we're quite lucky this place was never disturbed by drilling, soil erosion, or even the shifting of tectonic plates. One small earthquakes would've covered this site forever."

Castiel frowned at the possibility. "What do you say I do some more filming before something like that happens?"

"That sound great, Cas. That'll give me a chance to examine these chests."

With the touch of a button, he began his work, documenting the chamber from left to right while slowly moving toward the back corner. He started with the frescoes, concentrating on one colorful image after another before shifting his focus toward the vaulted ceiling and the dozens of chests that filled the room.

Little did he know that one of them contained the most important discovery of all time.

A secret that would change his life - and the history of the world - forever.

**::::::::::**

**TBC**

**::::::::::**

**AN:**

**Springer** -the lowest stone in an arch, where the curve begins.

**Voussoir **- a wedge-shaped or tapered stone used to construct an arch.

**Octavian Augustus **- Augustus was the founder of the Roman Empire and its first Emperor, ruling from 27 BC until his death in 14 AD. He was born Gaius Octavius into an old and wealthy equestrian branch of the plebeian Octavii family.

**Trajan **- is remembered as a successful soldier-emperor who presided over the greatest military expansion in Roman history, leading the empire to attain its maximum territorial extent by the time of his death. He is also known for his philanthropic rule, overseeing extensive publicbuilding programs and implementing social welfare policies, which earned him his enduring reputation as the second of the Five Good Emperors who presided over an era of peace and prosperity in the Mediterranean world.

**Constantine **- also known as **Constantine I** or **Saint Constantine**, was Roman Emperor from 306 to 337. Constantine was the son of Flavius Valerius Constantius, a Roman army officer, and his consort Helena. His father became _Caesar_, the deputy emperor in the west in 293. Constantine was sent east, where he rose through the ranks to become a military tribune under the emperors Diocletian and Galerius. In 305, Constantius was raised to the rank of_Augustus_, senior western emperor, and Constantine was recalled west to campaign under his father in Britannia. Acclaimed as emperor by the army after his father's death in 306, Constantine emerged victorious in a series of civil wars against the emperors Maxentius and Licinius to become sole ruler of both west and east by 324.

**Plate tectonics** - is a scientific theorythat describes the large-scale motion of Earth's lithosphere. The model builds on the concept of continental drift which was developed during the first few decades of the 20th century. The geoscientific community accepted the theory after the concepts of seafloor spreading were developed in the late 1950s and early 1960s.

**Source: Wikipedia**


	9. IX

**DISCLAIMER: **I own nothing of it.

**::::::::::**

**In The Name of The Father**

**Chapter **

**IX**

**Religion**

**::::::::::**

Father Samandriel Johnston. From the Vatican. Crucified. At Hamlet's castle.

Robert Singer knew the media was going to have a field day with this story unless he was able to eliminate the Shakespeare angle right away. There was nothing he could do with the religious aspect - a priest being crucified was hard to explain - but eliminating Hamlet was a possibility.

Unfortunately, Bobby didn't know much about literature, so he decided to call Rufus Turner, the assistant director of the Homicide Division. Turner was a whisky-loving man who had the ability to speak at length on every subject under the sun. Whether it was quantum physics, soccer statistic, or a recipe for fondue, Turner was the man with the answers.

Bobby said, "Hey, Rufus, it's Bobby. Do you have a minute?"

Rufus answered with a hoarse, "Of course."

"Rufus, are you feeling all right? You sound a bit under the weather."

"Yeah, I'm fine. It was a late night. Again."

Bobby smiled, not the least bit surprised that Rufus was hungover. His late-night carousing was one of the main reasons that Bobby had been promoted ahead of him. That plus Interpol's desire to have Bobby as the head of the division. "Out of curiosity, how much do you know about Shakespeare?"

"More than his own momma."

"And what about the Bible?"

"More than Dan Brown. Why do ya ask?"

Bobby filled him in on the case and told him what he was looking for. Why was Samandriel kidnapped in Rome but killed in Denmark?

Rufus answered, "Religion played an important role in Shakespeare's world, yet I can't think of a single character who was crucified. That would have been heresy back then."

"Then ignore the crucifixion and focus on the murder. Besides the location, can you think of any connections to _Hamlet_?"

"The thing that grabs my attention is the sign above the cross. Whoever painted that was brilliant. Is 'FATHER' referring to God, a character in Shakespeare's play, or the killer's actual father? At first glance. I'd assume it's referring to _Hamlet. _The plot follows Prince Hamlets as he avenges the death of the king - a son getting revenge for his father. Sounds perfect to me. Until you examine the method of execution. In my mind, crucifixion screams of Christ, not Shakespeare. If the killer cared about _Hamlet_, he would have chosen the sword."

"So this is about religion?"

"Not necessarily. It could be about the killer's father or the victim's father. But that's why the sign is so brilliant. You'll have to track down all these possibilities, whether you like it or not. For all we know, the killer is simply messing with ya."

"Maybe. Or it could be about something else, something you missed."

"Such as?"

Bobby smiled, glad that Rufus didn't know everything. "The victim was a priest. For all we know the sign could be about him. _Father_ Samandriel Johnston."

"Which only adds to the brilliance of the sign. It's memorable yet ambiguous. The perfect way to attract attention without giving anything away."

"That's why I decided to call you. I figured I'd fight brilliance with brilliance."

Rufus grinned. "I'll tell you what, give me a day or two, and I'll see what I can find. Who knows? Maybe I missed something else."

"Thanks, Rufus, I'd appreciate that. Before you go, though, I have one more question, this one about religion. Do you have any idea what Jesus's cross looked like?"

Rufus took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his black hair. He desperately wanted a cigarette but wasn't allowed to smoke inside Interpol, even though sometimes he did just because he was an American and fuck them if they didn't like it. "You'll be happy to know you're not alone. Most people are confused about his cross. Tell me, what kind of cross did they use in Denmark?"

"Wooden, made out of some kind of oak."

"That's not what I meant. Was it Latin? Tau? Greek? Russian?"

"Honestly, I have no idea. They're all Greek to me."

Rufus rolled his eyes. "A Greek cross is easy to spot. It looks like a plus sign. All four of its arms are the exact same length."

"Not Samandriel's. His looked like a capital _T. _The horizontal beam was way at the top."

Rufus whistled softly. "Then they got it right.'

"They got it _right_? What do you mean by that?"

"Most people think that Jesus was crucified on a Latin cross - one where the crossarm sits a third of the way down the vertical beam - but that's wrong. The Romans used tau crosses for crucifixions, not Latin ones."

"Really? Then why do churches use the Latin cross?"

"Because Christian leaders adopted it as their symbol during the ninth century, a decision that sparked controversy, since it was originally a pagan emblem representing the four winds: north, south, east and west. Yet Christians preferred that to the history of the tau cross, a symbol that meant death by execution to the ancient world. The death of criminals."

Bobby stroked his beard, wondering if Samandriel Johnston was a criminal. Or had dealt with one in the confessional. "Speaking of crosses, what can you tell me about the crucifixion? I mean, I'm familiar with the biblical version, but do we know what _really _happened?

"I guess that depends on your perspective. If you're Christian, the biblical version is the way it really happened, right down on the last detail. I mean, the Bible is the word of God."

"And if you're not a Christian?'

Rufus realized the subject was a powder keg. Groaning, he put an unlit cigarette in his mouth, just so he had something to suck on. "The truth is we don't know what happened. Christian historians say one thing while Roman historians say another. Then there are the Jews and the Buddhists and the atheists. Everyone has a different opinion on what happened, and no one knows for sure because it happened two thousand years ago. We can't check the videotape and come up with something definitive. All we can do is sort through the evidence, read what our ancestors wrote, and try to reach our own conclusion, which are invariably tainted by our upbringing."

"Meaning what?"

"Simply put, if your parents taught you to believe in Christ, you're probably going to keep believing in Christ. I mean, that's what faith is all about, isn't it?"

"And if you're a nonbeliever?"

"Well, I guess that depends on the person. Some people keep their doubts to themselves in order to fit into this Christian world of ours. Others join the local synagogue or temple or shrine and start practicing non-Christian faiths. Then, of course, you have the third group. The wild cards. They're the ones who don't care what society thinks about them, the type of people who enjoy rocking the boat. And if I were a betting man, guess which category I'd put the killer in?"

Bobby smiled, wishing that all of his questions were that easy. "Thanks, Rufus, I appreciate your candor. Let me know if you come up with anything else."

"Yeah, alright."

Bobby hung up his cell phone and turned his attention to Agent Mills, who was standing off to the side, smiling. "You look happy," he said. "Good news?"

"I just got off the phone with Rome. Father Johnston had a small apartment near the Vatican. When he didn't show up for a meeting at nine p.m., they tried to call him but couldn't get through. In their mind it wasn't a big deal until he failed to show up for work this morning. That's when they decided to call the police."

"And what about the Vatican? Do we know that Samandriel did for them?"

"I'm still working on that. I'm expecting a call from his supervisor any minute. Hopefully, he shed some light on it."

"I wouldn't count on it. I've dealt with the Vatican before, and they tend to be very tight-lipped about their business. Of course, who could blame them? I'd be secretive, too, if I had a billion dollar art collection locked in my basement . . . What are the local doing in Rome?'

"A forensics team is searching his apartment. They said they'll give me a call if they find anything of value. Otherwise, we'll get their report tomorrow."

"Nice work, Jody. I'm impressed. Do me a favor, though, and stay on top of the Vatican. Just because they promised you a report doesn't mean you'll get one."

In fact, Bobby laughed to himself, it would probably take a miracle.

**::::::::::**

**TBC**

**::::::::::**

**AN:**

**William Shakespeare** - was an English poet, playwright and actor, widely regarded as the greatest writer in the English language and the world's pre-eminent dramatist. He is often called England's national poet and the "Bard of Avon". His extant works, including some collaborations, consist of about 38 plays, 154 sonnets, two long narrative poems, and a few other verses, the authorship of some of which is uncertain. His plays have been translated into every major living language and are performed more often than those of any other playwright.

**Greek cross** - used especially by Eastern Orthodoxy and Early Christianity Also known as the _**crux immissa quadrata**_. Has all arms of equal length and not much longer than the width. Often the arms curve wider as they go out.

**Russian Orthodox cross **- Used in theEastern Orthodox Church. The top line is said to represent the headboard, and the bottom, slanted line represents the footrest, wrenched loose by Jesus' writhing in intense agony. It is raised to the left side, because that was the side of the righteous criminal who said to Jesus: "remember me when you come into your kingdom". This symbolises the victory of good over evil. The letters IC XC found at the end of the main arm of most Eastern Orthodox Crosses are a Christogram, representing the name of Jesus Christ (Greek: Ἰησοῦς Χριστός). See also the Cross of Salem.

**Tau cross **- Also known as **Saint Anthony's Cross**, the **Egyptian Cross** and the _**crux commissa**_. It is shaped like the letter T. Francis of Assisi used it as his signature.

**Latin cross** or _**crux ordinaria -**_It is the most common symbol of Christianity, intended to represent the death of Jesus when he was crucified on the True Cross and his resurrection in the New Testament.

**Christian** - is a person who adheres to Christianity, an Abrahamic, monotheistic religion based on the life and teachings of Jesus of Nazareth. "Christian" derives from the Koine Greek word _Christós_ (Χριστός), a translation of the Biblical Hebrew term _mashiach_.

**Judaism/Jews** - is the religion, philosophy and way of life of the Jewish people. Judaism is a monotheistic religion, with the Torah as its foundational text (part of the larger text known as the Tanakh or Hebrew Bible), and supplemental oral tradition represented by later texts such as the Mishnah and the Talmud. Judaism is considered by religious Jews to be the expression of the covenantal relationship God established with the Children of Israel.

**Buddhism/****Buddhist** - is a nontheistic religion that encompasses a variety of traditions, beliefs and practices largely based on teachingsattributed to Siddhartha Gautama, who is commonly known as the Buddha, meaning "the awakened one". According to Buddhist tradition, the Buddha lived and taught in the eastern part of the Indian subcontinent sometime between the 6th and 4th centuries BCE. He is recognized by Buddhists as an awakened or enlightened teacher who shared his insights to help sentient beings end their sufferingthrough the elimination of ignorance and craving by way of understanding and the seeing of Dependent Origination and the Four Noble Truths, with the ultimate goal of attainment of the sublime state of Nirvana.

**Atheism/Atheist** - is, in a broad sense, the rejection of belief in the existence of deities. In a narrower sense, atheism is specifically the position that there are no deities. Most inclusively, atheism is the absence of belief that any deities exist. Atheism is contrasted with theism, which in its most general form is the belief that at least one deity exists.

**Source: Wikipedia.**


	10. X

**DISCLAIMER: **I own nothing of it.

**::::::::::**

**In The Name of The Father**

**Chapter **

**X**

**Bronze Cylinder**

**::::::::::**

Castiel strolled around the chamber, carefully filming the dozens of stone chests that filled the room. The gray containers sitting in a series of straight rows, varied in size and shape - some had the dimensions of VCR while others approached the mass of coffin - but each of them had one thing in common: artistic brilliance.

Pictures of colossal battle scenes, marking the significant Roman victories of the early Empire, had been chiseled into the hard rock of several chests. Proud generals, standing in their horse-drawn chariots as legionnaires fought valiantly in the distant battlefield. Weary warriors, their faces streaked with blood from their fallen victims, continued to march forward, extending the boundaries of their homeland while bludgeoning anything that got in their way. And Roman heroes, their profiles etched into stone with such precision that-

"Oh, God," Castiel muttered. He quickly hit the pause button on his video camera. "Remember the face on the archway that appeared to be laughing at Christ's death?"

Crowley walked toward him. "Of course, I do. That blasphemous image is burned into my mind."

Castiel pointed to the two-foot-high stone cube that sat at his feet. "He had return."

Crowley glanced at the box and realized that he was correct. It was him, all right, and his devilish grin was featured in great detail. "I'll be flummoxed. What's he doing here?"

He ran his gloved finger over the carved face. "I don't know. But he seems awfully happy."

"Cas, while you were filming the artwork, did you see this man on anything else?"

He shook his head. "I would've told you if I did."

"What about his face? Do you remember where you've seen his face?"

Castiel stared at the image. "No, but I have to admit that the image seems to remind me of something. I know I've seen him before. I just can't remember where."

Crowley stood and quickly inspected the other chests in the room. Even though they varied in size, he realized that every box carried a similar theme: They were adorned with pictures of war. All of them, that is, except one - the one with the laughing man.

"This man had to be an emperor. Or at the very least, a man of great power and wealth. He is the only person who is featured on his own cube."

"And he was on the arch. They obviously held him in high esteem."

"But why?" Crowley pondered the question as he wrapped his fingers around the box. After a brief pause, he carefully slid his hands over the edge of the crate's lid, making sure that it was sturdy enough to be moved without damaged. "I know this goes against many of the things that I told you earlier, but-"

Catiel nodded in understanding. "You wish to see what's inside."

"I have to. I can't help it. It's the young whippersnapper in me."

"That's all right. If you didn't remove the lid, I was going to get a crowbar and do it myself."

It took nearly five minutes to ease the stone cover from its tight-fitting seam, but once they did, they were able to lift it with little difficulty. It was much lighter than they had expected.

"Careful!" Crowley begged. "This stone could provide us with important clues about the identity of this man. I'd hate for anything to happen to it."

The duo lowered the chiseled lid onto the floor, making sure they didn't scratch it. Then, once they were satisfied with its positioning, they rushed to the box to see what they had found.

"Bring the light closer. Quickly!"

Castiel grabbed the flashlight and pointed it into the box. The bright stream of light overwhelmed the darkness, revealing the sole object inside: a slender bronze cylinder.

"What is it?" Castiel asked.

Crowley smiled while removing the eight-inch bronze cylinder with his gloved hand. "It's a twin, Cas. An identical twin."

"A twin?"

"The documents that I found in England - the documents that led us to the Catacombs - were stored in an _identical_ bronze cylinder . . . Do you know what that mean?"

"No. What then?"

Crowley laughed. "I have no idea, but I bet it's bloody important!"

Castiel smiled, but in his heart he knew something was going on that Crowley wasn't talking about. He could sense it from the way he cradled the cylinder, treating it with a parental tenderness that was usually reserved for newborns. "Professor? May I look at it?"

He grimaced, reluctant to part with the artifact. "Be very careful, Cass. Until we open it, there's no telling what may be inside. The contents could be quite delicate."

He nodded, although he sensed that Crowley was being melodramatic. Nevertheless, he obeyed his wishes and treated the discovery with the utmost respect. "Oh, it seems so increadibly light. Are you certain this is the same type of cylinder that you found in Bath?"

"Positive!" Crowley brought his flashlight closer to the object and pointed out a series of small engravings that could barely be seen. "I'm not sure if this symbol can be translated, but I found an identical marking on the other one as well."

Castiel ran his finger over the triangular carvings, trying to probe the subtle indentations in the metal. The engraving on the cylinder was so shallow he could barely feel anything. "Why is this so faint? I can barely see it."

"I don't know," Crowley admitted. "It could've been worn down over time, or perhaps it was the style of the particular engraver. I'm hoping the contents of the canister will give us a clue."

"That is, if there's something inside."

The look on Crowley's face proved that he wasn't amused. In response, he snatched the artifact from Castiel's grasp. "We don't have the correct tools to open this. I need to go upstairs to get them." He winced, not realizing what had caused Crowley's sudden mood swing. "While I'm gone, make yourself useful and finish filming this room."

"Of course. Whatever you want, professor."

"Well, that's what I want." Crowley took two steps through the archway, then stopped abruptly. "And don't touch anything while I'm gone. Just film!"

Castiel watched as his mentor stomped down the stone corridor, the radiance of his flashlight getting dimmer and dimmer with every step that he took. Then, when he reached the far end of the hallway, Crowley turned up the narrow stairs and disappeared from sight, leaving Castiel alone in the massive vault.

**::::::::::**

As Crowley made his way upstairs, he slowed his pace near the crypts, careful not to brush against any of the hands that reached into the corridor. His light danced along the walls as he walked, giving the corpses the illusion of movement. For a split second he could've sworn that one of the fingers twitched, like the skeletal remains were coming to life. He paused ever so slightly to examine it before stepping into the first chamber.

The bronze cylinder needed to be protected, he knew that, so he tucked it into his deepest pocket before he climbed through the hole in the wall. He opened his toolbox in a huff, tossing aside screwdrivers and wrenches, hammers and nails, even a small set of rock picks until it dawned on him that he had no idea what he was looking for.

He stood there pondering the question when he realized that the walls of the cave seemed to be shaking, actually vibrating with pulsing burst of energy.

_Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!_

He could feel the rocks trembling beneath his feet.

_Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!_

Putting his hand on the wall, Crowley tried to determine the source of the tremors, but the entire rock face was vibrating at an even rate. Next, he placed his ear to the cool surface of the wall, hoping to establish the origin of the bass-filled pitch. Strangely, the strength of the sound actually seemed to dimish as he moved closer to the sides of the cave.

He quickly went through a series of calculations, attempting to figure out what could cause such a phenomenon. The resonance, the undulation, the energy. After a moment, it dawned on him that it was probably due to an external force. But what?

As he moved toward the site entrance, he noticed the drastic change in temperature. His body, which had grown accustomed to the underground climate, was now forced to deal with the hot Italian sun. Large beads of sweat surfaced on Crowley's brow, droplets that turned to mud as they streamed down his dirt-caked face and tumbled to the ground below.

His eyes, which were used to dim light of the tunnels, suddenly burned in the afternoon sun. Its radiance was so intense that he found himself shading his face like a moviegoer in intensity, forcing him to plug his ears while shielding his eyes at the same time.

"What is that hullabaloo?" he screamed over the noise. "What in the world can that be?"

**::::::::::**

Oblivious to the commotion above him, Castiel danced around the vast chamber, carefully filming the Roman chests. Even though it was a simple task, he knew his work would eventually be viewed by the world's leading archaeologists and scholars, a thought that made him ecstatic. Of course, that feeling would pale in comparison to the joy he'd feel when he told his father about his recent success. That would be the hightlight of his life, for it would be the first time in memory that his father would have to admit that he was proud of him. The first goddamned time.

And it would actually involve somthing that he'd worked for, and trained for, and dreamed about for as long as he could remember. The first accomplishment in a career that his dad had discouraged from day one. A moment when his father, the great Metatron Pelati, would have to admit that Castiel was actually capable of making a mark in the world of archaeology.

A smile sufaced on Castiel's face as he made his way to the back corner of the room. He gracefully sidestepped the largest crate while zooming in on an elaborate battlefield scene. Several seconds later he noticed a red light blinking on the back of his camera. The battery on the digital unit was about to run out.

"Hmmm . . . I need to change the battery." Castiel glanced around the room, realizing there was no way he could finish his work with so little power. He'd have to go to the upper chamber to get his backup battery before he could finish the task.

**::::::::::**

The black helicopter hovered near the plateau, swaying in the strong wind. The pilot fought the air currents the best he could but realized he was in danger of losing control. "Let me set her down, sir. The wind is swirling off the rock face. I don't know how much longer I can hold it."

The lone passenger in the copter lowered the binoculars from his cold eyes. "You'll hold it until I tell you otherwise. I have two men on that rock face, and my job is to cover them from an airborne position."

The pilot argued, "Well, I have a job, too. And it's impossible to do it in these conditions. I'm setting her down now!"

"If you do, I swear to God I'll have your ass." The intensity of his glared proved that he was serious. He was willing to do anything to complete his mission. _Anything._ There was simply too much at stake. "Give me five more minutes, and this will all be over."

**::::::::::**

**TBC**

**::::::::::**

**AN: **

**Hello there!**

**I would like to have this opportunity to thank you, readers for the review, fav and follow. **

**Much Appreciated :D**


	11. XI

**DISCLAIMER: **I own nothing of it.

**::::::::::**

**In The Name of The Father**

**Chapter**

**XI**

**:::::::::**

Piazza Risorgimento,

Rome, Italy

(fifty meters from Vatican City)

Buses filled with foreigners rumbled past him on their way to the main gate of the Holy City. People with cameras and unruly children strolled by his bench completely ignorant of who he was or why he was there. Their sole focus was on Saint Peter's Square and the Sistine Chapel and all the glorious artifacts in the Vatican museum, not the old man in the expensive suit or the two bodyguard who stood behind him.

Of course that was the reason that he liked to come here, the perverse amusement he got from watching so many people shell out their hard-earned cash for guidebooks and private tours. Meanwhile he sat on his bench knowing the vast majority of the Vatican's treasure lay hidden underneath the streets that they were walking on, everything protected in hermetic vaults that made Fort Knox look like a piggy bank. He smiled, realizing that none of them, no matter who they were or how much money they had, would _ever_ see the treasures that he saw every day.

The contents of _Archivio Segreto Vaticano. _The Vatican Secret Archives.

Metatron's official title was the minister of antiquities, a job he'd held for over three decades. Unofficially he was known throughout Italy as the godfather of archaeology, for he vowed to protect every relic found on Italian soil, even if that meant breaking a few laws in the process. Some critics in the early years when he just started building his violent reputation. But the Vatican never did. They knew a man with his talents would be invaluable. Not only his academic knowledge but his willingness to do _whatever _he needed to get results.

Every organization, even one as sanctimonious as the Church, can use men like that.

Still, in the beginning it was Metatron's expertise in the world of art, not his brutality, that got him noticed. Cardinal Zachariah Kurt Fuller, the former chair of the Vatican's Supreme Council was a childhood friend of Metatron's and his biggest ally. Zachariah understood politics better than his fellow cardinals and assured the Vatican the only way to protect its place in the modern world was to join hands with Metatron, someone trained outside of the Church. Someone who _wasn't_ encumbered by papal law. Eventually, the Vatican agreed, and Metatron was hired to update their way of doing things.

And his first project was organizing their most valuable asset: the Secret Archives.

Metatron ran his fingers through his graying hair and remembered the first day he was taken through the vaults. What an honor it was. Less than thirty men were privy to the contents of the Vatican's collections: the facility's curators, senior members of the Sacred Congregation of Cardinals, and the Curia. All of them devout Catholics who had decided their lives to God and were an established part of the Church. But not Metatron. He was the first outsider to be given unlimited access to the vaults. Ever. And the experience made him tremble. Never before had he seen so many beautiful things in one place. Paintings, statues, and treasures filled room after room. Plus more than _forty miles _of shelves that held nothing but written documents: scroll, parchments, and stone tablets for as far as the eye could see.

Unfortunately, once he got past all the beauty and started thinking about his job, he realized the Archives' filing system was a mess. Computers were still on the distant horizon, so everything in the vaults had been logged into card catalogs similar to those in a public library. Cards that could be moved, lost, or stolen. Adding to Metatron's confusion were the curators themselves. Over the centuries the men in charge of the Archives had different preferences for recording their data. Some logged artifacts by year, others by country, others by theme. And one curator used a system Metatron couldn't even interpret. To him it was amazing. He was staring at the most valuable collection in the world, yet one that was in complete dissaray.

However, he was thrilled by the chaos. Not only because he had the honor of placing everything were he thought it belonged, but because he realized if the curators themselves didn't know what they had in the vaults, then neither did the Vatican. And if that was the case, there was no telling what he might find as he dug deeper into the bowels of the Church.

One day on the job, and he'd been given a ticket to the greatest treasure hunt of all time.

It was an opportunity that changed his life forever.

**::::::::::**

Michael was one of Metatron's top assistants, a no-nonsense disciple who went out of his way to please the old man. He arrived on time and greeted Metatron with a kiss on both cheeks. No word were said, no pleasantry exchanged. This was a business meeting, not a social call. They would save the chitchat for another day. If ever.

Michael was much taller than Metatron and half his age. Yet their features were similar, especially the way their noses sloped away from their sunken eyes. Romans referred to it as _the look of the emperor, _though Michael didn't care about his face or his clothes or the make of his car. He didn't give a damn about those things because the only thing that mattered to him was his work. It was an addiction that ruled his life.

Minutes passed as Michael sat there, quiet, patiently waiting for Metatron to speak because that was the way it was done in the Old Country. The old man had called the meeting, so he controlled the agenda, just like every time the two of them got together. Someday Metatron would die, and Michael would move up in the organization. But until then Michael would sit there like a loyal dog, studying the people who poured past them on the busy street. Waiting to be briefed.

Eventually, the old man said, "It's been a bad day for the Church."

Michael remained silent, realizing details would come in short bursts, every statement measured before it left the old man's lips. As if Metatron didn't know how to talk to him.

"A priest was found crucified . . . A warning was issued . . . The Council needs our help."

In the power structure of the Vatican, the Supreme Council was second in command to the holy father. At least on paper. In reality, the seven cardinals who made up the Council - led by Cardinal Julian Dea Richings, the man who replaced Cardinal Zachariah when he died less than a year before - were the most powerful men in the Catholic Church. They decided what pope knew and what he didn't, protecting the papal throne from the bureaucratic issues of the day. To put it simply, their job was to keep the pope squeaky clean while they made the tough choices behind closed doors. The type of decisions that could soil the papacy and the Church.

And when these issues came up, Metatron was usually part of the solution.

Finally, after several more seconds of silence, Metatron turned toward Michael. "I need you to go to Vienna . . . There's an excavation I need you to oversee . . . Something quite important."

"In Austria?" Michael asked. "Do we have permission to dig there?"

Metatron stared at him until Michael lowered his head in shame. He should've known better than to question Metatron's orders. "Everything is ready . . . All you'll do is supervise . . . Once you're done, bring what you find back to me."

**::::::::::**

**TBC**

**::::::::::**

**AN:**

**Piazza Risorgimento** - lies just east of St Peter's Square and St Peter's Basilicaon the edge of the Vatican City. Most people who visit Rome will pass through the square as they queue for the Vatican Museums and the Sistine Chapel. Via di Porta Angellica links the Piazza Del Risorgimento with St Peter's Square.

**Fort Knox** - is a United States Army post in Kentucky south of Louisville and north of Elizabethtown. The 109,000 acre (170 , 441 ) base covers parts of Bullitt, Hardin, and Meade counties. It currently holds the Army human resources Center of Excellence to include the Army Human Resources Command, United States Army Cadet Command and the United States Army Accessions Command.

**Vatican Secret Archives** - located in Vatican City, is the central repository for all of the actspromulgated by the Holy See. The Pope, having primal incumbency until death or resignation, owns the archives until the next appointed Papal successor. The archives also contain the state papers, correspondence, papal account books, and many other documents which the church has accumulated over the centuries. In the 17th century, under the orders of Pope Paul V, the Secret Archives were separated from the Vatican Library, where scholars had some very limited access to them, and remained absolutely closed to outsiders until 1881, when Pope Leo XIII opened them to researchers, more than a thousand of whom now examine its documents each year.

**Papal law **- a decree of regulations made or adopted by the Pope for the Roman Catholic Church and its members.

**Sacred Congregation of Cardinals **- The highest-ranking departments of the Roman Curia (the central administration of the Catholic Church) are called **congregations**. Lower-ranking are the pontifical councils and pontifical commissions. Others are tribunals and offices. In origin, the congregations were selected groups of cardinals, not the whole College of Cardinals, commissioned to take care of some field of activity that concerned the Holy See. Today, as a result of a decision of the Second Vatican Council, the membership includes diocesan bishops from diverse parts of the world who are not cardinals. Each congregation also has a permanent staff to assist it in dealing with the business that comes before it. Each congregation is led by a prefect, who is usually a cardinal. Until recently, a non-cardinal appointed to head a congregation was styled pro-prefect until made a cardinal. This practice has been abandoned.

**Roman Curia** - is the administrative apparatus of the Holy See and the central governing body through which the Roman Pontiff conducts the business of the entire Catholic Church. It acts in his name and with his authority for the good and for the service of the particular Churches and provides the necessary central organization for the correct functioning of the Church and the achievement of its goals.

**Source: Wikipedia; Panoramic Earth; Dictionary.**

**Julian Dea Riching, portrayed by Death/The Grim Reaper/Pale Horseman in this story, this is to avoid confusion :]  
**


	12. XII

**DISCLAIMER: **I own nothing of it.

**::::::::::**

**In The Name of The Father**

**Chapter **

**XII**

**One Toolbox**

**::::::::::**

Curiosity had a way of consuming Dr. Crowley. Although he should've been focused on the bronze cylinder, he was more interested in the sound. The deafening roar of the outside world was too intriguing for him to ignore. "Hello!" he called in his English accent. "Is anybody out there?"

The rotor blades of the helicopter continued to reverberate like thunder just outside the entrance to the Catacombs.

"Goodness gracious! What is causing that tumult?" Crowley continued to ponder the question as he made his way to the mouth of the cave. "People should have more consideration when -"

The sight of the massive machine, coupled with the over powering roar of the turbines and the hurricane-like wind that enveloped him, was enough to take Crowley's breath away. He'd assumed the noise was probably a piece of equipment working on the plateau above but never expected to see a helicopter staring him in the face from more than 700 feet in the air.

**::::::::::**

The man in the passenger seat grinned, then ordered the pilot to rotate to the left. A split second later, the man's Beretta M501 sniper rifle was out the side window, and Crowley was in its crosshairs.

"Gentlemen," he whispered into his headset, "the Lord works in mysterious ways."

The two soldiers stopped their ascent up the plateau and looked skyward, though their angle prevented them from seeing anything of value. "What's going on, sir? Is everything all right?"

The man squinted as he adjusted his scope. "It will be in a moment. One shot, and our biggest problem is history."

They nodded in understanding. "What should we do?"

He shoved the rifle's recoil pad against his shoulder and tried to compensate for the chopper's way. "Keep on climbing. I'll need you to deal with the other man inside the Catacombs and seal the site."

**::::::::::**

Crowley shielded his eyes the best he could, but the mixture of dust and sunlight prevented him from seeing much. "Hello!" he screamed. "Can I help you with something?"

When he heard nothing, he figured he needed to alter his approach. So instead of shouting, he simply wave at the helicopter, hoping its passengers would wave back, then move on.

**::::::::::**

"Hold steady," the sniper ordered. "Steady!"

But it was an impossible task. The wind was surging off the top of the ridge like a waterfull, then swirling on its descent to the rocky terrain below. The result was an aeronautical nightmare, a pocket of turbulence that literally chewed at the lift the helicopter was trying to produce. The pilot did his best to compensate, increasing and decreasing the pitch of the main rotor. But it made little difference. Choppers weren't meant to fly in these conditions.

"I'm losing it," warned the pilot. "I swear to you I'm losing it!"

**::::::::::**

With camera in hand, Castiel strolled into the colorful first chamber, making his way directly to the Catacombs' exit. As he crawled through the narrow opening, he suddenly became aware the noise and vibrations that had intrigued Crowley.

"Professor?"

He continued up the slope of the rocky trail, trying to shield his eyes from the intense glare. With the exception of his hand, the only thing protecting him from total blindness was the figure that stood in the cave's entrance. And from his chubby frame, he knew it was Crowley.

"Professor? What's making that noise?"

Before Crowley could respond, he heard the unmistakable sound of gunfire, then watched in horror as Crowley turned from his perch and scrambled down the path. Without hesitation Crowley buried his shoulder into his gut and tackled him to the floor, protecting him from the blitzkrieg. Skidding to a painful stop, Crowley grabbed his hand and dragged him to the nearby corner, making sure they were out of the gunman's range. "Are you all right?" Crowley demanded. "Are you hurt?"

Stunned, he took a moment to probe his body. "No, I'm fine."

Crowley climbed to his feet and peeked around the nearest outcropping. The roar of the chopper still thundered outside. "I think we're in trouble. There's a helicopter out there."

"A helicopter?"

"Yes! And it's got a nasty little passenger. All I did was wave, and he started shooting at me!" He peered around the rock, still unable to see. "But that's not the worst thing. I saw a sign on the chopper that said _Polizia_."

"What? Are you serious?"

"Of course I'm serious." Crowley grabbed his hand. "Listen to me, we're in grave danger. But if you follow my lead, we'll survive."

"We can defeat an armed helicopter?"

"Yes! But we have to act quickly. If they land and come inside, we're going to be killed."

"Wait! You want to fight a helicopter? With what exactly?"

Crowley rushed to the corner and rummaged through their tools. "Did we bring any rope?"

"Rope? Not with us. We left that in the truck."

Quickly, Crowley turned the toolbox upside down and dumped its contents with a loud clatter. "I guess this will have to do instead."

Castiel stared at him, confused. "You asked for a rope but settled for a toolbox? Do you mind telling me what you're going to do?"

"Watch and learn, Cas. Watch and learn."

Crowley carried the box toward the entrance of the cave and studied the machine that threaten their lives. It hovered less than fifty feet in front of the opening, its occupants glaring out the front window of the craft. "Cas, come here. Grab the camera and anything you want to take with us. Whether this work or not, I think it's best if we leave this place as soon as possible."

"We're leaving?"

"Go!" he ordered. "And be quick about it!"

Castiel scampered to the rear while Crowley moved forward, boldly walking into the line of fire. He wasn't sure if his idea was going to work, but he figured it was better than being trapped inside the Catacombs without any weapons. "Hey you twat! Come and get me!"

Crowley quickly repeated the phrase in Italian, just to make sure they understood his command. The chopper instantly moved closer, trying to reduce the angle between the sniper and target, hoping to avoid another misfire. But the maneuver was a tactical mistake. As the craft inched forward, Crowley extended the toolbox behind him, then tossed it underhanded as far as he could. The container sailed through the air until it floated into the path of the main rotor blades.

As the box closed in, the pilot suddenly realized what was about to happen. He'd been so concerned about the gusting wind and the dangerous rock face that he never paid attention to Crowley or his toolbox. It was an oversight that would cost him his life.

_Clank!_

Metal struck metal in a sickening scream, shattering two of the four rotor blades on contact and sending shrapnel in every direction. With the sudden loss of lift, the chopper lurched forward, missing the rock face by inches before the pilot managed to pull the craft back. The sudden change in pitch couldn't be handled by the rear rotor, causing the vehicle to spin like a broken Tilt-A-Whirl as it tumbled toward Crowley's truck 700 feet below. Second later, the crunch of metal was masked by the powerful explosion that engulfed the side of the rock face, literally shaking the ground underneath Crowley's feet.

"Brilliant!" Crowley cheered. "Bloody brilliant!"

As the roar continued, Castiel burst from the interior of the cave to see what had happened. "Professor, are you . . . " Before he could finish his question, he noticed the bright ball of fire. Orange and red flames shot high into the air as thick clouds of black smoke surged from the smoldering wreckage. "Holy Mother of God! You broke their helicopter. And our truck!"

He nodded, happy with his handiwork. "Thank goodness we paid the renter's insurance."

Normally Castiel would've howled at his comment, but Crowley didn't give him the chance. Crowley grabbed his armed and pulled him back inside, where he started gathering his equipment. Unfortunately, he was forced to stop when he heard a distant rumbling.

"Cas? What is that? Is that another chopper?"

Castiel grimaced, then took a few steps toward the mouth of the cave. Leaning back, he glanced at the cliffs above him. A slow trickle of rocks and debris were heading down the steep slope. "This isn't good."

In a flash Crowley knew what was happening. The impact of the explosion had forced the ground around them to shake, producing the last thing that he wanted. "Avalanche!"

The duo burst from the tunnel entrance, running as fast as they could. Although it was risky choice, they knew they'd rather face an onslaught of falling rocks than the sudden impact of a cave-in. Debris they could dodge. Collapsing tunnels they couldn't.

Grabbing Castiel by the hand, he led the way along the narrow rock face, making sure they stayed together as they hugged the wall of the cliff. They scurried on the precipice for several seconds whey they realized they couldn't outrun the falling debris. the footing was too unstable, and stones were too constant for escape. They needed to find cover and hope for the best.

They scrambled under the first ridge they found, hoping the large outcropping would shield them from the debris. Unfortunately, as they stood underneath the slab, they realized that the ledge had several cracks near its base, flaws that might collapse when put under sudden duress.

"Please hold!" Crowley begged. "Oh God, please hold! I don't wanted to die like this."

**::::::::::**

The two soldiers stared in disbelief as the helicopter plummeted past them. Flames shot skyward like a geyser from hell, forcing the men to cower against the rock face for protection. But it wasn't the heat that they needed to worry about.

The landslide started with a trickle. First a pebble, then a stone, and finally a massive boulder. Before long, half the damn ridge was heading toward them, and they realized it was just a matter of time before they'd be joining their commander in the afterworld. The younger of the two men was lucky one, for he died without suffering. A sharp piece of rock hit him squarely on the head, shattering his skull and rupturing his frontal lobe like a blow from a battle-ax. One minute he was by his partner's side, the next he was splattered on his face.

Soon his lifeless body was swept down the cliff face in a torrent of dust and stones.

The older man tried to ignore the gruesome scene, though it was impossible. Chunks of brain stuck to his face like scraps of sushi, while blood seeped into the corner of his eyes, stealing his ability to see. Despite this hindrance, he somehow managed to hang on, shaking off the falling stones that tore at his flesh, praying he could somehow survive this horror and scramble back to his squad in one piece. But it was not to be.

The rock that sealed his fate struck him squarely on the right shoulder, ripping his arm from its socket with a nauseating pop and shattering his clavicle like it was made of glass. He teered on the edge for several seconds - just enough time to express his agony with scream that rose about the roar of the fire below - before crashing to the earth.

One toolbox. Four dead.

**::::::::::**

The outcropping shook and trembled throughout the landslide. Castiel watched nervously as stones plunged past him, but nothing, not even the tiniest of pebbles, managed to find them in their protective haven.

After the rocks and debris subsided, Castiel said a short prayer of thanks, then turned to check on Crowley. His face was more pale than usual, but a smirk was etched on his lips. "Are you OK?"

Crowley took a deep breath. "Peachy. And you?"

"I'm fine." Castiel showed him the camera that he clasped in his hand. "So is the video."

"Oh God! The cylinder!" Crowley frantically moved his fanny pack, hoping that the artifact had stayed in the pocket of his shorts during all the chaos. When he felt the metal, he smiled, knowing they had lucked out. "Well, Cas, it appears that things aren't a total loss."

"No, but pretty close." Castiel pointed toward the Catacombs. Their entrance was now covered in debris. "I don't think anyone will be using that door in the near future."

Crowley grinned as he inspected the rubble. "Good! In the meantime we can take our video to the authorities and use it as proof of our discovery. Then we can come back with proper protection and stake our official claim to this site!"

"Yes," he sighed, "if there is anything left to claim."

"Don't worry. I'm sure we won't leave Italy empty-handed."

And Crowley knew that was true, for even if the Catacombs had been completely destroyed, he realized that he already possessed the object that he had come to Orvieto for.

The bronze cylinder.

**::::::::::**

**TBC**

**:::::::::**

**AN:**

** Beretta M501 sniper rifle **- is the Italian Army sniper rifle. The integral harmonic balancer, contained within a tube hidden in the forend of the stock, is used to reduce the vibrations of the barrel, helping to improve accuracy. The rifle has been around since the mid 80's, and has earned a solid reputation as a fine sniper rifle. It could probably even be better with a synthetic stock, though the contour of the current stock is excellent. The rifle is issued with 1.5-6x42mm Zeiss scope. I have never seen one of these available in the US, and I'm not sure they are available outside the Italian military.

**Blitzkrieg** - describing a method of warfare whereby an attacking force spearheaded by a dense concentration of armoured and motorized or mechanized infantry formations, and heavily backed up by close air support.

**Tilt-A-Whirl - **also known as Waltzer in Europe, is one of the best-known flat rides, designed for commercial use at amusement parks, fairsand carnivals in which it is commonly found.

**Avalanche** - Slides of rocks or debris, behaving in a similar way to snow, are also referred to as avalanche.

**Source: Snipercentral; Wikipedia.**


	13. XIII

**DISCLAIMER: **I own nothing of it.

**::::::::::**

**In The Name of The Father**

**Chapter**

**XIII**

**Most Wanted**

**::::::::::**

Several hours passed before they came back for Dean. By then his legs were dead asleep, two lifeless limbs barely able to move. Still in handcuffs, he was dragged upstairs and shoved into a metal conference room where Sam, handcuffed as well, was sitting at the end of a long table. A large stranger in a dark suit sat on Sam's left. A second man, speaking on a cell phone, stood in the far corner of the room, watching everything with steely resolve.

Dean smiled when he saw Sam. It was the first time they had seen each other since they had been arrested. "Hey Sammy, you're looking well. How ya been sleeping?"

"Like a baby. Every morning I wake up wet."

He nodded knowingly. "Fuckin' hose."

Dean took the seat across from Sam and studied the man to his side. He was roughly taller in height, apparently taller than Sam and out weight him by a hundred pounds. Muscle, not flab. Dean stared at him for five seconds, sizing him up, and in all that time he couldn't find his neck. Finally, to break the silence, Dean introduced himself. "I'm Dean Winchester. And you are?"

The yeti stared back at Dean but didn't say a word. He just let out a soft growl.

Sam, who had the physique of defensive back, snorted. "Thank God he hates you, too or . . . Maybe he's just deaf."

"Any idea what this is about?"

"Not a clue. And you?"

Dean shook his head. "I was promised a phone call for today but never got to make it. Maybe these guys are from the embassy."

"No," blurted the man on the cell phone. "We aren't from the embassy."

"Oooooh!" Dean teased. "Sammy, They can talk!"

"Yes, Mr. Winchester, we can talk. But I promise this will be a short conversation if you continue to make comments at our expense. I will not tolerate lip from a prisoner."

The guy was six foot two, in his mid-thirties, and a total prick. They could tell that immediately. There was something about his demeanor that said. _If you fuck with me, I'll shit in your corn flakes._ Maybe it was his hair, which was blond high and tight, or his eyes, where were steely cold blue and reptilian. Whatever it was, he made it work because there was no doubt he was running things. "So, should I leave right now, or will you shut up long enought to listen?'

Dean hadn't followed orders since he was in the military but got the sense that they had no choice. Either they listened to this guy, or they went back to their cells for a very long time. "Sure, silence can be arranged. But only if you give us the courtesy of your name and rank. I fell that's the least we deserve."

"No, Dean, you don't _deserve_ a thing. Not with the charges you're facing."

The man took a seat at the far end of the table and removed a folder from his leather briefcase. Then he sat there for a minute, studying its contents. Refusing to say a word. The only sound in the room was the occasional rustle of paperwork. When he spoke again, the harshness in his voice was softer than before. Like he had reconsidered how to handle things. "However, due to the circumstances of my proposal, I think it would be best if I remained civil."

"Your proposal?" Dean asked.

"Before I get to that, let me honor your request. My name is Luc Pellegrino, and I'm with the Central Intelligence Agency." He whipped out his identification and handed it to Dean. Luc's partner followed his lead. "This here is John DeSantis, he likes to be called as Golem though. Anyway, he's been teamed with me for this particular, um, situation."

Dean studied both IDs, then passed them over to Sam. "I don't get it. What do we have to do with the CIA? Shouldn't this be an embassy matter?"

Luc grabbed his badge, then ordered Golem to stand guard across the room. Dean found that kind of strange, since they were in the middle of a secure facility. Nevertheless, the big guy lumbered over there and leaned his ass against the door like a tired moose.

"This is well past an embassy matter," Luc assured him. "The embassy tends to avoid crimes of this nature."

"Crimes? What the hell are you talking about? We didn't do anything. We came here to have some fun as tourists."

"Come now, Dean. Both of us know the type of missions you used to run. I'm sure if you thought about it you could come up with a long list of activities that the Spanish government might disapprove of." Luc leaned forward, lowering his voice to a whisper. "For now I think it would be best if we refrain from any specifics. You never know who might be listening."

Dean thought back to his time with the MANIACs and realized they had passed through Spain on hundreds of occasions. Moron Air Base, located near Seville, was midway between the U.S. and southwest Asia, making it a prime spot to gather supplies and jump-start missions. Same with Naval Station (NAVSTA) Rota, positioned on the Atlantic coast near the Strait of Gibraltar. It gave them access to the Mediterranean Sea and assistance on amphibious assaults. Throw in Torrejón Air Base and all the other U.S. facilities scattered around Spain, and Dean shuddered at everything they might have on him and Sam.

Hell, every time they carried weapons off the base was a breach of regulations. So was crossing the border with non-military personnel. Or flying through restricted airspace. In fact, just about everything the MANIACs did in Spain - even though it was always in the line of duty - bordered on a punishable offense. Not the type of violation that was _ever_ pursued or prosecuted. The symbiotic relationship between the U.S. and Spain would not survive if the Spanish government started cracking down on active personnel in sanctioned U.S. missions. Still, the thing that worried Dean was the classified nature of his operations. How could he defend himself if he wasn't allowed to talk about anything he did?

Dean said, "You know, you're right. This _isn't _an embassy matter. It's way beyond their scope. This is something the Pentagon will have to handle themselves."

Luc shook his head. "Sorry, gentlemen, it's not going to happen. The Pentagon was notified by the Spanish government as soon as you were arrested. Sadly, in their eyes they have nothing to gain by getting involved. Can you imagine the public relations nightmare they'd face if they admitted to the missions you were involved in? Things _might_ be different if you were still on active duty. Unfortunately, their desire to help is usually related to your current usefulness. And since you're currently retired, they view your usefulness as next to nothing. Of course, you and your brother."

Luc smiled crookedly. "It's a cruel world. Isn't it, Dean?"

Dean wanted to jump across the table and show Luc how cruel the world could be. Just to shut his cake hole up. But he knew he couldn't do that. Not until he found out whey he and Sam was there, whey the CIA was interested in his situation. For all he knew, Luc could be his only ally. "And what about you? Does your organization view us as _useful_?"

Luc's smile widened. "I wasn't so sure until I read about your trip to Cuba. Very impressive. In my mind, anyone who could do _that_ is useful . . . That mission still boggle my imagination."

Dean and Sam looked at each other, confused. No one except the top brass at the Pentagon was supposed to know about Cuba. Not the CIA, the FBI, or even the president. As it stood, the Cubans didn't even know about Cuba, because the moment they found out, they were going to be pissed. Anyhow, the fact that Luc knew about their trip told them a lot. It meant he was a heavy hitter with some serious connections. Someone who could cut a deal.

"Awesome," Dean said. "You've done your homework. Unfortunately, there's still one damn question you haven't answered. Why the fuck are you here?"

Luc leaned back in his chair, quiet. Watching them squirm. Most people would've answered right away, but not this guy. He was cooler than that. Much cooler. The definition of self-control. Finally, when he sensed that they were about to lose their patience, he gave them an answer. "I'm here to by your freedom."

_Freedom_. Neither Dean nor Sam knew how that was possible, but that didn't stop Luc from sitting there, stoic, enjoying the power he had over them like an evil puppet master. He didn't smile, frown, or even blink. After several seconds of silence, he pulled out another folder, this one several inches thick and wrapped in a rubber band.

A single name appeared on the cover: _Dr. Mark Crowley Sheppard._

"Gentlemen, I've been authorized by the Spanish government to make a once-in-a-lifetime offer. If you're willing to accept my term, they won't keep you in jail for your lifetime."

Sam grimaced at the pun. "Then, who do they want us to kill?"

Luc glared at him. "I'm not sure what you were used to doing for the MANIACs, but I can assure you that the CIA would never broker an assassination."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Are you sure? 'cause I can name at least twenty cases where the CIA was involved in the death of a key political figure - and that's not even counting the Kennedys."

"Whether you believe me or not is irrelevant. What is important is this: My proposal doesn't involve murder or illegal activities of any kind."

Dean remained skeptical. "Right. So what does it involve?"

"A missing person."

"Excuse me? They want us to find a missing person? And if we agree, they'll what? Let us walk?" Dean read the name on the manila folder. "Let me guess, Dr. Mark Crowley Sheppard?"

Luc nodded. "That's affirmative. We'd like you to find Dr. Crowley."

Dean sat there, waiting for more information. When it didn't come, he said, "And out of curiosity, who the hell is Dr. Crowley?"

His question was intended for Luc. But Sam stunned everyone by supplying the answer. "If I'm not mistaken, he's an archaeologist from England."

Luc glanced at Sam. "How did you know that?"

Sam sighed and said, "I saw Crowley on the History Channel. Seems to me he's a professor at Oxford or one of those fancy pants English schools. It might've been Hogwarts for all I know. Anyway, he was talking about the Roman Empire and how it influenced modern society."

Luc wrote a note to himself. "What else did you learn?"

"I never knew the Romans had indoor plumbing. I always thought -"

He cut him off. "I meant about Crowley."

"Oh, not much. They used his voice but he rarely appeared on screen. He was just the narrator."

Dean rubbed his eyes, trying to play catch-up. "Let me get this straight. Dr. Crowley is an English archaeologist, someone with enough credibility to teach at a world-famous university and narrate a special on the History Channel?'

Luc nodded, refusing to give additional information.

"OK, here's what I don't understand. What's the big emergency here? I mean, whey does the Spanish government want this guy so badly that they're willing to cut a deal with two prisoners? Furthermore, where does the CIA fit into this? Something just doesn't add up here."

Luc gave him a cold, hard stare, one that suggested he wasn't ready to lay his cards on the table. Nevertheless, Dean stared back, unwilling to back down. He'd been locked up for seventy-two hours and was sick of being jerked around. His aggressiveness paid off moments later when Luc leaned back in his chair and sighed. A long, drawn-out sigh. A sound that told Dean he had backed his prey into a corner, and he was about to surrender.

Luc stayed like that for a moment, like he was still trying to decide if it was the right thing to do. Finally, with reluctance on his face, he pushed the folder forward.

"Dr. Mark Crowley Sheppard is the most wanted criminal in Europe."

**::::::::::**

**TBC**

**::::::::::**

**AN:**

**Morón Air Base** - is located at 37°10′N 5°36′W in southern Spain, approximately 35 miles (56 km) southeast of the city of Seville and 75 miles (121 km) northeast of Naval Station Rota. The base gets its name from the nearby town of Morón de la Frontera. Morón's massive flight line, in-ground aircraft refueling system, long runway and prime location on the Iberian peninsula, close to theMediterranean and the Middle East, means the base is a vital link in any operation moving east from the United States.

**Naval Station Rota -** also known as **NAVSTA Rota**, (IATA: **ROZ**, ICAO: **LERT**) (Spanish: _Base Naval de Rota_), is a Spanishnaval base commanded by a Spanish Rear Admiral and fully funded by the United States of America. Located in Rota in the Province of Cádiz, near the town of El Puerto de Santa María, NAVSTA Rota is the largest American military community inSpain and houses US Navy and US Marine Corps personnel. There are also small US Army and US Air Force contingents on the base.

**Torrejón Air Base** - (Base Aérea de Torrejón de Ardoz) is a major Spanish Air Force base and a secondary civilian airport for Madrid Madrid-Torrejón Airport.

**Strait of Gibraltar** - is a narrow strait that connects the Atlantic Ocean to the Mediterranean Sea and separates Gibraltar and Peninsular Spain in Europe from Morocco and Ceuta (Spain) inAfrica. The name comes from the Rock of Gibraltar, which in turn originates from the Arabic _Jebel Tariq_ (meaning "Tariq's mountain") named after Tariq ibn Ziyad. It is also known as the **Straits of Gibraltar**, or **STROG** (**Str**ait **O**f **G**ibraltar), innaval use and as the "Pillars of Hercules" (Ancient Greek: αἱ Ἡράκλειοι στῆλαι) in the ancient world.

**Luc, as you can see is Lucifer played by Mark Pellegrino. Golem on the other hand, is played by John DeSantis and a saboteur of Aaron Bass, a members of Men-of-Letters.**

**Source: Wikipedia.**


	14. XIV

**DISCLAIMER: **I own nothing of it.

**::::::::::**

**In The Name of The Father**

**Chapter**

**XIV**

**Compatriot**

**::::::::::**

Every crime has a command center. Whether it's a major case or not, there has to be place for the investigating officers to go to write their reports. Sometimes it's just a tiny cubicle at headquarters, but there's always a spot that becomes the heart of an investigation.

But rarely was it this luxurious.

Kronborg's superintendent wanted to keep Robert Singer happy, so he put him in Royal Chambers, a series of room that served as the royal residence for nearly a hundred years. The suite was built for Frederick II in the 1570s and was filled with the original furnishings. A gold chandelier hung from the ceiling, dangling over the banquet table that served as his desk.

Bobby rarely had any privacy when he worked a case so he viewed this as the ultimate luxury, a chance to be alone with his thoughts, if only until someone came looking for one of the file he "borrowed" from the Danish police when they weren't looking.

Every investigator had a different technique for sorting through evidence, his or her personal way to get a grip on things. Some talked into a tape recorder. Others typed the info into their computer. But neither of those techniques worked for Bobby. He was old-school when it come to evidence, eschewing the lure of technology for the simplicity of a bulletin board. To him there was no better way to organize a case. He could move things whenever he wanted until everything fit into place - like a giant jigsaw puzzle that revealed the secret identity of the killer.

The first thing he put on the Kronberg board were photographs of the crime scene. They were taken at a variety of angles and revealed all the little horrors that he would like to forget. The way two of the victim's ribs had been forced through his skin like broken chopsticks that had been plunged into a pound of raw meat. The way his jaw hung at an impossible angle. The way blood looks when it mixes with urine and feces. That's the reality of the average homicide, the type of stuff that Bobby had to wade through to find the answers he was looking for.

Like finding more information about Samandriel Johnston. That would be the best way to determine why he was chosen to die. Learn about the victim to learn about the killer. That meant starting with the people who knew Samandriel best: his friends, family, and coworkers. Of course, that was more difficult than it sounded since they were scattered all over Europe. Throw in the language barrier and the secrecy of the Vatican, and the degree of difficulty went through the roof.

It would take a team of professionals to get the information he needed.

The first person he phone was his secretary at Interpol. Charlie Bradbury was in charge of calling the National Central Bureaus in Oslo and Rome and telling them what Bobby needed, then they would contact the local police departments and get the information for him.

Unfortunately, Vatican City wasn't one of Interpol's member countries. That meant there wasn't an NCB office at the pope's palace. No local contacts meant no insiders. And no insiders meant no information. Agent Mills had tried to circumvent the problem by calling the Vatican directly, but as Bobby had anticipated, no one returned her message.

So Bobby decided to call the Vatican himself, hoping his fancy title would get someone on the line. He'd received a long list of phone numbers from Charlie and asked her to break things down according to nationality, figuring Danes and Finns would be most willing to help because of their connection to the crime.

After giving it some thought, though, he decided to scarp that idea and go in the opposite direction. Instead of looking at it from the victim's point of view, he decided to look at it from his own. Who'd be willing to help _him_? He needed to find someone he could talk to, someone he could bond with. That was the angle he needed to play, the way to get his foot in the door.

It was far too late to help Samandriel. But it wasn't too late to help Bobby.

**::::::::::**

Cardinal Frank Devereaux grew up in Texas. He loved guns, red meat, and ice-cold beer. But more than anything else, he loved God, and that was the reason he was willing to move halfway around the world to work for the Vatican. This was his calling, and he was very content.

But that didn't mean he wasn't homesick.

When the call came to his office, his assistant told him that Robert Singer was on the phone. The name didn't ring a bell, so Cardinal Frank asked his assistant Chuck Shurley what it was. Chuck shrugged and said Bobby wouldn't tell him. Then he added that Bobby had an American accent. Two seconds later, Frank was on the phone. "How can I help you, Mr. Singer?"

Bobby smiled at the Texas twang in the cardinal's voice. It was music to his ears. "Thanks for taking my call, Your Eminence. Please call me Bobby."

"Thanks, Bobby. But only if you call me Frank."

"Ya got it."

"So, what part of America are you from?"

"All over, really. My dad coached college football, so I grew up on campuses from Oregon to Pennsylvania to Florida. Plus I spent a whole lot of time in Texas."

They spent the next few minutes talking about the Lone Star State before Frank asked. "So, what can I do for you? I have to admit I'm curious, since you wouldn't tell my assistant."

"Sorry about that. I thought it would be best if I told you myself."

"Told me yourself? That doesn't sound good."

"I'm afraid it's not. I run the Homicide Division at Interpol, and last night one of your priest was found murdered."

Frank tried to remain calm. "One of _my_ priests? You mean one of my assistants?"

"Maybe," Bobby admitted. "That's the reason for my call. We know the victim's name and that he worked for the Vatican, but I'm having trouble finding out additional -"

"His name?" Frank demanded. "Please tell me his name."

"Samandriel. Father Samandriel Johnston."

The sound of relief escaped Frank's lips, a whisper that told Bobby that the Cardinal didn't know the victim. "How did it happen?"

"He was crucified."

"Dear God!" Frank made the sign of the cross. "Did you say crucified?"

"Yes, sir. Someone kidnapped him, knocked him out, then nailed him to a cross."

"When? Where? Why didn't I hear about this?"

Bobby grimaced, not sure what to answer first. "As far as we can tell, he was kidnapped in Rome last night. From there he was taken to Denmark, where he was killed."

"Denmark? Why Denmark?"

"We don't know, sir. That's what I was hoping to find out. Ya see, I'm in charge of gathering as much evidence as possible, but I've run into some resistance. I've tried calling several people at the Vatican, but -"

"Say no more." Frank paused, trying to think of the best way to explain things. "I know how we can be about information. That's probably why I haven't heard anything about this tragedy. People are reluctant to open up in our community."

"Which is understandable, but -"

"Not acceptable. I couldn't agree with you more." Frank shook his head, half embarrassed by the situation. "Bobby, I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to look into things myself, even if it means ruffling a few feathers. And the moment I have anything, and I mean _anything_, I will give you a call, day or night."

"Do you promise? 'Cause several people have -"

"Yes, Bobby, I promise. I will get to the bottom of this. You have my word as a Texan."

And to Bobby, that meant more than Frank's word as a church official.

**::::::::::**

**TBC**

**::::::::::**

**AN:**

******Frederick II** - (1 July 1534 – 4 April 1588) was King of Denmark and Norway and duke of Schleswig from 1559 until his death.

**Texas** - is nicknamed the _Lone Star State_ to signify Texas as a former independent republic and as a reminder of the state's struggle for independence from Mexico. The "Lone Star" can be found on the Texas state flag and on the Texas state seal today.[9] The origin of the state name, Texas, is from the word, "Tejas", which means 'friends' in the Caddo language.

**Source: Wikipedia.**


	15. XV

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing of it.

**::::::::::**

**In The Name of The Father**

**Chapter**

**XV**

**Decision**

**::::::::::**

Sam always wanted to helped innocent people and solved mysteries, which was the reason he wanted to become a detective slashed lawyer. Some people see the glass as half-empty, while others see it as half-full. But Sam stares at it and tries to figure out who drank the damn water. And some people may think criminals are pure evil. But Sam was sure as hell that they are in fact innocent.

Anyway, Dean wasn't surprised when Sam snatched the CIA folder before he had a chance to grab it. _Jeez, What a nerd,_ Dean thought to himself. And Sam said, "Dr. Mark Crowley Sheppard majored in archaeology and linguistics at Oxford and was eventually given a teaching position at Dover University in 1968. According to this they even made him head of his department in 1991 . . . Wow! He sure got a lot of credits and compliments."

Luc wasn't amused. "Keep reading, Sammy. I assure you it gets worse."

"It's Sam." he sneered.

Dean snatched the folder from Sam before they start tearing each others apart. "Damn, Sammy! He wasn't kidding. Take a look at this."

Sam fought the urge to smile when Dean handed him a head shot of Dr. Crowley that was taken during the Nixonadministration. The type of photo that gets attached to someone's personnel file and stays there no matter what anyone does to get rid of it. Crowley wore a tweet jacket and a silk bow tie, plus the worst comb-over hairstyle Sam had ever seen. It looked like one of the _before _photos in that infomercial for spray-on hair.

"Let me guess," Dean cracked. "He's wanted by the fashion police."

"No," Luc said in a harsh tone. "He's the key suspect in an Interpol investigation that's been going on for two decades. Everything from forgeries to smuggling to the theft of antiquities. This guy does it all and does it at a very high level. Right now he's wanted in several countries, most notably France, Italy, Germany, Austria, and Spain."

"Then why don't they pick him up?" Sam wondered.

"Because Crowley's a genius. Every time they get close to him, he finds a way to cover his tracks. Every single time. I'm telling you, it's like the guy has ESP."

"Or inside information," Sam suggested.

Dean was thinking the same thing. "OK, let's pretend everything you've told us about Crowley is accurate. What does this have to do with the CIA?"

Luc pointed to the file. "Let me start with Spain. Dr. Crowley stole a number of heirlooms from the Spanish government, one-of-a-kind items that have no price tag. Needless to say, they're willing to do anything within reason to have them returned. Unfortunately, the only way to retrieve their items is to find Dr. Crowley and get him to talk. Sounds easy, right? Well, up until now he's managed to hide hundreds of objects under Interpol's nose, and no one has any idea where. Spain is worried if Crowley get killed in a manhunt, then their artifacts will never resurface. And the same can be said for the rest of Europe. Everyone is panicked about this. _Everyone_. And panic is a wonderful thing, especially if you're able to take advantage of it."

"See, that's where you're losing me. How can the CIA benefit from this?"

Luc leaned forward and smiled, the type of smile that was usually seen next to a bubbling cauldron. "Tell me, Dean, what do you know about the CIA?"

"I know how to spell it. Other than that. I'm fucking clueless."

Dean pointed toward Sam. "There's the guy you want to talk to. He was tempted to join your organization at one point in time."

Luc looked surprised. "Is that so?"

Sam nodded. "Simply put, you guys collect foreign intelligence, evaluate it, then send your theories to D.C. in one of these snazzy manila folders."

Luc ignored the last part. "Of course, it's not as easy as it sounds. Sometimes it takes years to get a task done. For instance, we might smuggle an agent into a country, let him become a part of the system, then go back to him much later to find out what he's learned. Sometimes months, sometimes years. That's why in certain situations we're forced to use more efficient techniques, ones with quicker rate of return."

Sam grimaced. "Torture?"

"You've heard the saying, _If I scratch your back, you scratch mine. _Well, that's how we get some of our best Intel. We provide a favor - weapons, cash, whatever - and get data in return.

Dean groaned in understanding. "And let me guess, Sammy and I are the favor."

"Not just a favor, a _big _favor. If you catch Crowley, you're helping more than just Spain. You're helping us as well because we'll hold Crowley over Europe like mistletoe, then see which country kisses our ass first. And the best part is we don't have to risk any operatives to complete this mission. You gentlemen can do all the dirty work for us."

"That is, if we agree to do this. You see, there's still one thing that bothers me. I take it there's no way the Spanish government is willing to put our agreement on paper."

"That's correct, Dean. No paperwork on this one. It's safer that way."

"Safer for whom? What's to stop them from arresting us again the moment we find Crowley?" Sam asked.

Luc shrugged. "And what's to prevent you from going home the moment you leave this facility? The answer is nothing. But I'll tell you this: I think Spain is showing a lot more faith in you than you are in them. With your military backgrounds, you guys could disappear if you wanted to, and there's no way they could come to the U.S. to get you back. So what have you got to lose? If you take their deal, they'll let you walk . . . And if you don't they'll let you rot in this hell of a cell."

**::::::::::**

**TBC**

**::::::::::**

**AN:**

**Hello there!**

**To answer one of my review. Well, I won't be making any of the series.**

**I find this enough as it is. Though, if readers want me to continue, then I won't deny them the pleasure.**

**Still, I don't want to make promises.**

**Alright. Thank you for the review. Much appreciated!**


	16. XVI

**DISCLAIMER: **I own nothing of it.

**::::::::::**

**In The Name of The Father**

**Chapter**

**XVI**

**Escape Route**

**::::::::::**

The police in Orvieto could not be trusted. The city crest on the side of the helicopter was proof of that. But how far did the conspiracy run? Could Crowley and Castiel trust the cops in the next town? There was no way of knowing, so they decided to take a two-hour bus ride to Perugia, a city of over 150,000 people, and seek the protection of a much larger police force.

After settling into the backseat, the duo glanced out of the window and searched for flashing lights, men with guns, or anything that seemed suspicious. Yet nothing disrupted the quiet serenity of Orvieto except the loud exhaust of the bus.

Once they cleared the confines of Orvieto and headed toward the Italian countryside, Crowley was finally able to relax. His breathing returned to normal. The color reemerged in his cheeks. the knot in his stomach began to loosen, and his racing heart slowly slid from his throat.

Suddenly re-energized, Crowley removed the cylinder that he'd rescued from the Catacombs and stared at it. To him, the unearthing of the Catacombs was an event that would rock the archaeological community for decades to come. But the discovery of Orvieto paled in comparison to the item in his hand. If the Roman cylinder actually contained what he thought it did, the entire world would sit up and notice, not just a bunch of professors from the world of academia.

Front page news all over the globe. Crowley's picture on every magazine cover.

Before he got too excited, he realized he had to make sure that the promised treasure was actually inside. While Castiel took a nap next to him, he held the cylinder next to the window to see if he'd missed anything in the gloom of the Catacombs. With the exception of the engraver's inscription, the object was completely smooth, containing no ridges or flows of any kind. Both ends appeared solid, as if the metal had no seams. But Crowley knew that wasn't the case.

The artifact from Bath had looked solid as well, yet after running it through a series of tests, he discovered that one of the ends was covered with enough metal to keep air and moisture out but not enough to make it impenetrable. All he needed was a screwdriver, and he'd be able to pierce the metal top, then peel the surface back like the top of a can of nuts.

Desperate, Crowley glanced under his seat, searching for something to break the seal. Next he checked the video camera bag, but all of the fasteners were made of plastic, which was way too flimsy to penetrate the top.

_Bloody hell, _he thought to himself. _This cylinder is the key to everything. There has to be-_

And then it dawned on him. He had just muttered the answer to his problem.

Crowley removed the key to his rent-a-truck and pushed its tip against the edge of the bronze cylinder. The container hissed as the seal was broken, allowing air that had been sealed for two thousand years to escape from the tube. With trembling hands, he pushed the key in harder, then peeled the thin layer of metal toward the edge. Not the entire way, though. He had no intentions of removing the document on the bus. All he wanted to do was to see if the scroll was inside.

To get good look, Crowley raised the cylinder skyward, hoping to use the sun as a spotlight. But as he brought the opening to his eye, his concentration was broken. The scenery that had been rushing past at a steady pace had slowed to a crawl. The roar of the bus engine, the sound of the surging wind, and the chatter of his fellow passengers had disappeared as well.

"Cas!" Crowley shook him fiercely. "Wake up! We're stopping."

His eyes poppod wide open. "What do you mean we're stopping? Where are we?"

"In the middle of nowhere."

Castiel blinked a few times, then glanced out the side window, trying to place the terrain. Unfortunately, the sunflower fields and lush patches of green grass were commonplace for the area. There was no way he could tell anything from farmland.

Moving into the center aisle, he walked toward the driver hoping to see a road sign or a mileage marker that would pinpoint their exact location. Regrettably, the only thing he saw was the bright hue of flashing lights. He rushed back to Crowley. "There's a roadblock ahead!"

The color disappeared from Crowley's face. "They're looking for us! I knew it!"

Castiel realized the odds were pretty good that Crowley was right. "The way I see it, we have two options. We can try to negotiate our way out of this or . . . " He put his hand on the emergency door and opened it. "Or we can get ourselves out of here."

Not waiting for Crowley's response, Castiel grabbed the video camera and slid out the back of the bus. Crowley followed his lead and climbed out as well.

"Now what?" he demanded. "Where to now?"

Castiel crept to the back corner of the bus and looked around. "Professor, where is the rest of the traffic? There should be present of other vehicles." He glanced back at Crowley. "Did we go through a detour while I was sleeping? We are not on the highway anymore."

"I don't know. I wasn't paying attention. I was studying the cylinder."

He growled softly. "This is difficult. We will have to run for it. That is our only alternative." He eyed the terrain on both sides of the road and realized the field of sunflowers would be perfect. "If we can get into the flowers, we should be able to hide until they search the bus and leave."

Crowley nodded, then wrapped his hand around the cylinder like a sprinter in a relay race. "All right, Cas. You lead. I'll follow."

After taking a deep breath, Castiel burst from their hiding place and leap into the belly of the golden field where flowers sprouted to seven feet tall. Crowley followed him through the labyrinth of stalks, catching faint glimpses of him as he scurried through the sun-colored field.

**::::::::::**

The bus driver, Edgar Martinez knew something was wrong the instant he heard the call. In his twenty-plus years with the company, this was the first time that the police had ever radioed him with a new set of directions. At first he figured there was an accident up ahead or maybe a traffic jam, but when he saw the flashing light on the rural road, he knew it was something worse.

They were looking for one of his passengers.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he announced in Italian, "please don't be alarmed. This is just a routine stop by the local authorities. I'm sure we'll be under way shortly."

"Are you sure?" Ava Wilson shouted. "Because two people just jumped out the back."

"Jumped out? he demanded. "What are you talking about?"

Before the passenger could answer, one of the cops at the roadblock hoisted an M72 Light Anti-tank Weapon onto his shoulder and fired. The rocket launched with a mighty _whoosh_, propelled by gases that burned at over 1400°F, and slammed into the metallic grill of the bus.

Fire roared down the center aisle like a flood, burning everything in its wake: the seats, the luggage, and the people, literally melting the skin off their bodies in a horrific ball of flames. The unlucky few who survived the impact of the rocket scrambled blindly in the black smoke, searching for a way out. They flailed wildly at the broken windows, trying to squeeze through the holes that lined the frame even though the razor-like shards punctured their faces and torsos.

Finally, Andy Gallagher came to his senses and opened the emergency exit in the back.

"If you can hear me," he screamed into the smoke, "come this way!"

Seconds later, he saw Ava, a petite woman fighting her way through the inferno, dragging a badly burnt man whose face looked like it had been removed with a blowtorch. The first man didn't know where she'd found the strength,yet she'd somehow managed to drag him to the rear exit.

"You're almost out," Andy assured her as he helped them to the ground. "We're almost free."

Ava tried to thank him but could only manage a hacking cough. At least she was still breathing, he thought. At least she had made it through the flames and had managed to save one of the passengers in the process. Somehow, miraculously, they had survived this tragedy.

At least for the moment.

While staggering from the bus, Andy spotted the policemen in the distance and screamed to them for aid, not realizing that they had started the fire to begin with. The smallest of the cop rushed forward like he was going to help, like he was ging to put out the fire with the long nozzle that he held in his hands. But instead of giving them assistance, he did just the opposite.

Stopping fifteen feet in front of them, the cop lowered the visor on his flame-retardant helmet and hit the switch on his flamethrower, sending a deadly stream of jellied fuel into the air. The chemicals ignited in a wicked flash, covering the victims like napalm and scorching them like marshmallows that had fallen into a campfire, their white skin bubbling and turning black as they slowly became a part of the burnt asphalt.

Smiling, the cop spoke into his headset. "The leak has been sealed."

**::::::::::**

**TBC**

**::::::::::**

**AN:**

******Perugia** _- _ is the capital city of the region of Umbria in central Italy, crossed by the river Tiber. The city is also the capital of the province of Perugia. Perugia is located about 164 kilometres (102 miles) north of Rome, and 148 km (92 miles) south-east of Florence. It covers a high hilltop and part of the valleys around the area. The region of Umbria is bordered by Tuscany, Lazio and Marche.

**M72 LAW Light Anti-Tank Weapon** - is a portable one-shot 66 mm unguided anti-tank weapon. The solid rocket propulsion unit was developed in the newly formed Rohm and Haas research laboratory at Redstone Arsenal in 1959, then the full system was designed by Paul V. Choate, Charles B. Weeks, Frank A. Spinale, _et al_. at the Hesse-Eastern Division of Norris Thermadore. American production of the weapon began by Hesse-Eastern in 1963, and was terminated by 1983; currently it is produced by Nammo Raufoss AS in Norway.

**Source: Wikipedia**

**Ava Wilson and Andy Gallagher are both special children. While Edgar was Dick Roman's second-in-command Leviathan.**


	17. XVII

**DISCLAIMER: **I own nothing of it.

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**In The Name of The Father**

**Chapter**

**XVII**

**Bella**

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Tuesday, July 11

Dover, England

(eight miles southeast of London)

Dean and Sam weren't born yesterday. They had been involved in too many missions to ignore the obvious: there was something fishy about Luc's offer.

The CIA was a global organization, one that had agents and hidden connections all over the world. If the _legitimately_ wanted to find Dr. Crowley, there was no way they would've turned to two outsiders for help. Yet for some reason Luc came to Pamplona anyway. For some reason he wanted to go _out of house _(i.e., use non-CIA personnel) to track down Crowley and ultimately settled on two former MANIACs to do the job. Dean wasn't sure why that was, but he had some theories. Perhaps Luc was bucking for a promotion and felt the best way to get one was by catching a wanted man on his own? Or maybe Crowley had done something to Luc long ago, and this was Luc's way of getting some personal revenge? Or maybe, it was something more obvious. Maybe Luc wanted to get his hands on Crowley so he could sell his stolen treasures and pocket the money for himself?

In the end Dean and Sam weren't sure what Luc's motivation was. All they knew was he had the power to get them out of jail ASAP, and that's all they wanted. Besides, they figured once they got back into circulation they'd have plenty of time to investigate Luc, Crowley, and everything else that seemed shady to them. Which was just about everything.

After accepting Luc's offer, Dean and Sam collected their things before being herded into a helicopter and whisked away. Of course, Dean needs to take his motion sickness medication and to suck it up when it comes to acrophobia. Anyway, during their flight Luc briefed them on the mission and how to contact him once they had located Crowley. Instead of using a phone, they were to activate a high-tech beacon that looked similar to a garage door opener. Then they were to sit patiently and wait for the cavalry to arrive. Well, not the _real_ cavalry. Their mission was supposed to be top secret, so the last thing they needed was for a bunch of horses to come galloping into town, shitting all over the place, while being led by a bugle-playing cowboy. Something like that might work during a gay pride parade but not on a CIA operation.

Anyway, their chopper touched down late Monday night in Bordeaux, France, where they were told to spend the night. Luc gave them their travel itineraries for an early morning flight, then left with Golem to save the world or something. Once alone, Dean and Sam started working the phone – first calling the Pentagon to check on Luc and Golem's credentials, then calling Dover University to set up an appointment with Dr. Mark Crowley Sheppard.

England is smaller than the state of Alabama yet has three of the finest universities in Europe: Oxford, Cambridge, and Dover. The first two are the most well-known and for good reason. Oxford is the oldest English-speaking University in the world and boasts a roster of alumni that includes John Donne, William Penn, J. R. R. Tolkien, and Bill Clinton. Cambridge came into existence more than one hundred years later and was the school of choice for John Milton, Prince Albert, Isaac Newton, John Harvard, and Charles Darwin.

Yet in recent years many of the top students have shied away from the big two, partially because their admission policies seem to place more emphasis on a candidate's lineage than his academic achievements. That, however, is not the case at Dover. Founded in 1569 by Elizabeth I, Dover had the guts to reject a member of the royal family when he failed to meet its scholastic standards. That episode, more than anything else, catapulted Dover's status to the top of the academic heap, making it the school of choice among the elite families in Great Britain.

At least that's what Sam read on the Internet while collecting intel for their trip.

The next morning they flew to London, took the express train to Victoria Station, then picked up a local line into Dover. From there it was a short walk to campus, where they had a late afternoon meeting with Dr. Crowley's assistant, Becky Rosen, a chipper young woman who can't get her hands off of Sam and for some obscure reason, to offer them a cup of tea even though it was seventy-five degrees and sunny. To prepare for their meeting, Dean and Sam decided to show up early and conduct some research on their own.

The archaeology department was part of Kinsey College, one of thirty-three colleges that make up Dover University. It sat in the northwest corner of campus, fairly isolated from the sprawling lawn that connected all the schools. Crowley's office was on the second floor of a building that was designed by England's greatest architect, Sir Christopher Wren, one filled with arches, flying buttresses, and the biggest doors Dean had ever seen. Thankfully, the massive slabs of oak were outfitted with modern locks that Dean could crack in thirty seconds.

Pushing the door open, he said, "After you, Sammy."

There was no need to turn on any lights, since sunlight streamed through a series of recessed windows that ran the length of the wall. Crowley's desk sat on the opposite side, next to three filling cabinets and a series of bookshelves. Sam hoped to find a computer filled with Crowley's records and schedules, yet Crowley seemed to be a product of a different generation, for nothing in the room was modern. Even the clock looked like it was built by Galileo.

The filing cabinets were locked, so Sam works his magic while Dean dug through Crowley's desk. Dean found the usual assortment of office supplies and knickknacks but nothing that helped their search. Next he turned his attention to the bookshelves. They were filled with books on the Roman Empire, archaeological digs in Italy, and early Latin.

"The first one's done." Sam said. "Though, it seems there's nothing here to look."

"Same here, Sammy. There's nothing over here but damn books on Italy. Let's see: we got Rome, Venice, Naples, and Milan."

Sam focused his attention on the second lock. "Not exactly a shocker. I mean, his interview on the History Channel was on the Roman Empire. I'm guessing that was his specialty."

"It was," said a feminine voice from the doorway. "That and privacy, which is the reason his chests are locked. Or should I say were locked."

Dean looked at Sam, and he looked back, the color draining from both their face. Suddenly they felt like Winona Ryder getting busted for shoplifting.

"Listen," Dean said, "we weren't—"

"No need," said the woman in an aristocratic accent. She was in his late twenties and wearing an elegant business attire outfit complete with high heels and shining jewelries. A Dover emblem covered her left breast. "It's none of my business, really. I just came to ring some of my friends. Do you mine?"

"No, go ahead," Dean said, half stunned. They had just been busted in someone else's office, yet he was being asked permission to make a call. God, the English were polite.

"By the way," the women reasoned, "I'm assuming you're the chaps who rang Becky last night for an appointment. If I knew what you were after, perhaps I could expedite things? You see, Becky is a bit busy right now. So, I'll be at your service. That is, if you don't mind."

Dean glanced at Sam and noticed the confused look. Guess the detective gods or whatever gods were looking out for them.

"Actually," Dean said, "we have some urgent business to discuss with Dr. Crowley, and time is of the essence. Any idea where we might find him?"

"Well, I can assure you he's not in the chest." Dean waited for the woman to smile, but somehow she managed to keep a straight face. "For the last few weeks he's been in the Umbria region of Italy, specifically the town of Orvieto. I was planning on spending my summer there until Crowley told me that I'd be more helpful at home. Not exactly a vote of confidence, would you say?" The bitter tone in the woman's voice told them everything they needed to know. He was pissed at Dr. Crowley, so he decided to get revenge by using Crowley's phone and helping them out.

"Do you know where he's staying?" Sam wondered.

She shook her head. "Orvieto is pretty small. You shouldn't have any trouble finding him." She retrieved a book written by Crowley from the closest shelf. "Do you know what he looks like?"

Dean nodded. "We have one picture from when Winston Churchill was still alive."

"Most likely his annual from Oxford. It amazes me that he was willing to sit still for it. He's something of a recluse when it comes to cameras."

The woman flipped over the booked and showed them the back photo. It must've been taken during one of Crowley's lecture, for he was standing in front of a chalkboard with a pointer in his hand. His face and physique looked pretty much the same, albeit twenty years older. The only thing that had changed was his comb-over hairstyle. He had finally opted to mess his hair instead.

Sam asked, "Do you mind if I keep this? I'd like to read his stuff."

"Not at all. Feel free to take whatever you'd like." The woman wrote her number on a scrap of paper and gave it to Sam. "Should you have any further questions, please don't hesitate to call."

Dean said, "We won't."

"Now, if you don't mind. I'd like to trouble you mates for a favor." The woman finally cracked a smile. A devious little grin. "When you surprise Crowley in Orvieto and do _whatever_ you're going to do to him, please tell him that I, Bella Talbot, said hello."

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**TBC**

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**AN:**

**Bordeaux** _- _ is a port city on the Garonne River in the Gironde department in southwestern France. The city of Bordeaux, with a population of 239,157 inhabitants in 2010, is the ninth largest city in France; its metropolitan area (_aire urbaine_) is the sixth largest in France, with a population of 1,127,776. It is the capital of the Aquitaine region, as well as the prefecture of the Gironde department. Its inhabitants are called "Bordelais" (for men) or "Bordelaises" (women). The term "Bordelais" may also refer to the city and its surrounding region.

**The Pentagon** - is the headquarters of the United States Department of Defense, located in Arlington County, Virginia. As a symbol of the U.S. military, "the Pentagon" is often used metonymically to refer to the U.S. Department of Defense.

**University of Oxford** **- ** is a collegiate research university located in Oxford, England. While having no known date of foundation, there is evidence of teaching as far back as 1096,making it the oldest university in the English-speaking world, and the world's second-oldest surviving university. It grew rapidly from 1167 when Henry II banned English students from attending the University of Paris. After disputes between students and Oxford townsfolk in 1209, some academics fled northeast to Cambridge, where they established what became the University of Cambridge.The two "ancient universities" are frequently jointly referred to as "Oxbridge".

**University of Cambridge** - is a collegiate public research university in Cambridge, England. Founded in 1209, Cambridge is the second-oldest university in the English-speaking world and the world's third-oldest surviving university.It grew out of an association formed by scholars leaving the University of Oxford after a dispute with townsfolk; the two "ancient universities" have many common features and are often jointly referred to as "Oxbridge".

**Sir Christopher Michael Wren** (20 October 1632 – 25 February 1723) is one of the most highly acclaimed English architects in history. He was accorded responsibility for rebuilding 52 churches in the City of London after the Great Fire in 1666, including his masterpiece, St. Paul's Cathedral, on Ludgate Hill, completed in 1710.

**Umbria** - is a region of historic and modern central Italy. It is the only Italian region having neither a coastline nor a common border with other countries. It includes the Lake Trasimeno, Cascata delle Marmore, and is crossed by the River Tiber. The regional capital is Perugia.

**Source: Wikipedia.**


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